


Coda

by Inofaro



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Jazz Music, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Not Epilogue Compliant, Referenced Suicide Attempt, Slow Burn, Unconventional Career Choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-03-13 08:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 91,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18936973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inofaro/pseuds/Inofaro
Summary: Fifteen years after the War and everything is much the same; (Neo) Death Eaters are on the rise, racism and creature/non-magical prejudice are running rampant, and Harry Potter is just as miserable as ever in an Auror desk job that's just as pointless as ever. But he doesn't want help. He doesn't need it. After all, what kind of "Saviour" would he be if he were the one needing saving?And when his life suddenly crosses Draco Malfoy's again, Harry can't bring himself to pull away. Working at Muggle cafes? Performing at Muggle jazz clubs? Babysitting at Muggle orphanages? Conducting groundbreaking musical-magical research? Without anyone noticing, Malfoy's gotten it all - a family, friends, a passion - leaving Harry in the dust.But Malfoy's still not happy. And Harry has no idea why.But Malfoy could ask the same thing: why, with eternal fame and fortune, family and friends, would the Chosen One ever be so sad that he can't get out of bed?As their lives become intertwined once more, they learn - amidst fear, music, and healing - that it's not too late to have a happy ending.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been two years in the making with a lot of doubt and procrastination and hours of writing, rewriting, and revising in between so I'm beyond thrilled to finally be posting it! Thank you to everyone who's encouraged me both on and offline-y'all have been the lifeblood of this fic! Without you this would still be a far off dream. 
> 
> Some notes:  
> \- Like the tags suggest, there will be two separate references to suicide attempts. Both are not graphic, and will be indicated beforehand.  
> \- This fic is clocking in at ~91,000 words and 20 chapters including the epilogue.  
> \- I will be updating three times a week on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays!  
> \- Enjoy!

“But of course I could not die. I would live on, through each scalding moment to the next.”

\- _Circe,_ Madeline Miller

“ _Tempus._ ” White sparks fly out of Harry’s wand and arrange themselves into ‘6:33 PM’ in the air. After a moment, they melt away.

He sighs and lets his chin fall back onto his desk. In front of him lies the case file of his current target, the half-finished report strewn randomly. The guy has the usual profile for neo-Death Eaters: young, white, and male, and the small group of other young, white males he leads has grown bold in past months. Ron’s told him all about what he’s seen on stakeouts: the seedy, angry-looking bigots posted up in various side alleys down Knockturn Alley, preying on anyone who looks desperate or angry enough to believe all the bullshit they spout about blood status and, the Death Eater movement’s new gimmick, racial purity. The turn in their ideology came as no surprise to everyone. After all, The Boy Who Lived, the Vanquisher, the Chosen One - Harry Potter - is half Chinese.

 _And Hermione too,_ Harry muses. _Those bastards hate her especially because she’s black._

The Auror Office doesn’t think they’re planning any kind of widespread takeover soon, given the size of the group, but the possibility grows alongside their recruitment efforts. Ron told him over lunch the other day that, in the past month alone, they’ve acquired a few hundred members. It seems that, with each passing year, the terror felt from Voldemort’s reign slips further and further from people’s minds. Blood purity sentiments are slowly, but surely, resurfacing.

Harry casts _Tempus_ again. ‘6:35’ floats above him for a moment, mocking him, before disappearing.

“Fuck.”

He could- _should-_ be sitting with Andromeda at her dining room table right now, enjoying whatever delicious meal she’d prepared today. Mashed Potatoes? Sauteed asparagus? Harry’s stomach rumbles with yearning and he pats it sympathetically.

 

Robards had popped in this morning, all chipper because he, for some unfathomable reason, is a _morning_ person despite being a nasty human being any other time of day, and said, “Potter.”

Harry grunted in response, chugging his coffee.

“I’m gonna need the report in tonight. A team is dispatching them tomorrow.”

After swallowing, Harry choked out, “Tonight?”

Robards, the bastard, grinned, “Exactly. Can you do it?” It was a rhetorical question, of course.

“I’ll try.”

“Great.” The door clicked shut. Harry heaved a great sigh.

The report still wasn’t done by the time Robards popped in again on his way home, so he instructed Harry to stay late and get it done.

So with a heavy heart, Harry owled Andromeda letting her know that he couldn’t visit and tried to focus on his work.

But now, nearly two hours later, it’s 6:35PM and Harry still has a whole section to go. Or maybe several. It isn’t his fault that he’s unused to working on Fridays. Or working much at all, for that matter.

Then, quick footsteps - ones that Harry recognizes from the sound alone. It’s Ron.

The door bursts open to reveal his freckled friend standing in the doorway, his hair windblown, cheeks and nose red, and dressed in full, scarlet Auror robes.

“Harry, mate, you’ll never believe it.”

“Robards made you work overtime, too?”

“No. Jack turned himself in.”

Harry glances at the name on the case file. “Our guy, Jack Willows?”

Ron grins, “Yup. Said he was _Imperius_ ed the whole time.”

“Merlin.”

“Anyway, I came to tell you that we won’t need the report anymore.”

Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. He shoves the papers back into the folder and pulls on the robes draped over the back of his chair.

“You going to ‘Dromeda’s?” Ron asks.

“Yeah. Hopefully I can still make dessert.”

Ron checks his watch - Harry’s wedding present to him - and says, “You’d better hurry up. It’s 6:50.” Harry idly wonders why he got Ron a watch but didn’t bother getting one for himself.

“Let’s go, then.”

They walk out together, to the apparition point. Harry could use the Floo, but the journey through the flames and dust has been upsetting his stomach the last few times he’s done it. He blames age.

“See you tomorrow then? Don’t tell Hermione I told you this but,” Ron pauses to look around for eavesdroppers, “We have something to tell you. A surprise.”

Harry lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah sure, I’ll drop by around seven.”

With a nod and a flourish of robes, Ron disapparates. Harry does the same a moment later.

He reappears at the gate of Andromeda’s house; it seems smaller in the dark and cold, its cobbled bricks and gently sloped roof vague outlines in the night. Harry draws his robes closer to his body and walks down the path to the front door. The sitting room light is on, and Harry can hear piano music through the walls. Andromeda must have charmed the instrument again. She likes a bit of background noise while she knits by the fire.

Harry knocks. He waits for a full minute. There is no sign of movement from within, and the piano music continues. He tries the door and his heart drops when the knob turns easily. He dashes in, blood rushing to his head and right hand going for his wand.

As soon as he turns the corner into the sitting room, the music stops. Andromeda is sitting in her favorite cushy chair, right in front of the fireplace, with her knitting piled in her lap and the basket next to her. Draco Malfoy is seated at the piano. Both of them are openly staring at Harry.

(Art by me)

Andromeda moves first, standing up and walking towards Harry with her hands up as if preparing for an attack. “Harry, let me explain.”

“Explain, then.” Harry’s voice is hoarse, thick with an intense emotion, and it coils in the pit of his stomach - shaking his insides up with every passing second that his eyes stay latched onto Malfoy. 

 

“Dra-”

“It’s okay, Andromeda.” Malfoy interrupts her and stands up. “I should be going, anyways.” The fear that Harry saw earlier was gone - hidden as something blank slides into place and replaces it. Malfoy grabs his coat - his _Muggle_ coat - and brushes past Harry as he leaves. After a second’s delay, Malfoy’s cologne washes over him and it’s minty. Harry unwittingly takes a deep breath of it. As soon as the front door clicks shut, Harry slumps into a chair.

“So,” he begins, “you were saying?”

Andromeda smiles and speaks slowly and softly, “Draco is family. We’ve been in contact for a while now. I just...didn’t know how to bring it up to you. Don’t worry, Harry.”

Though _what_ exactly she thinks Harry would be worrying about, she doesn’t say. But rather than demand an explanation, Harry simply says, “Okay.” The fire crackles in the fireplace. “Sorry,” he tries to rub away the sudden weariness from his face, “Had a rough day at work today. I didn’t mean to drive him away.”

Andromeda settles back into her knitting, saying, “Oh it’s no problem. He’s just a little shy. Maybe…” she looks up at Harry with a little mischievous light in her eye, “next time? We could all have dinner together sometime later? When Teddy's here, too.”

Harry replies on reflex, “Can’t next week, ‘m helping Hagrid out over at Hogwarts. For Christmas decorating.”

“Well, sometime after that then.”

Eyes narrowing, Harry asks, “Why?”

Her knitting needles click ferociously as she continues creating something large and absurdly _purple._ “Why not?”

After a moment of grasping for replies that don’t make Harry seem like a _complete_ ass, he sighs in defeat. “Okay, fine.”

The rest of the evening passes peacefully and thankfully Malfoy-free. Andromeda continues knitting the amorphous mass of yarn in her lap, adding a little silver into the purple towards the end - all while gushing about Teddy and his spectacular marks in school. Harry leans back in the cushy couch and listens to her and the faint hoots of her two owls, Sherman and Bedelia, as they perch in their cages in the kitchen.

When it’s time to leave, Harry gives Andromeda a kiss on the cheek, and apparates away once he steps on the other side of the gates. The last thing he sees is a lone silhouette shadowed by the light behind her, waving.

Only after Harry’s taken a shower, brushed his teeth, and climbed into bed does he think about Malfoy again. He remembers how he treated him - and now, hours later, Harry no longer understands why he reacted so violently. It was _just_ Malfoy. And, like Andromeda said, it wasn’t that big of a deal. It’s normal for family to stick together, especially after the War. Harry, of all people, can understand that.

Steeling himself, Harry throws himself out of bed and stalks over to his window. His barn owl, affectionately known as Spotty, blinks her eyes at him in confusion.

“Spotty.”

She doesn’t say anything. Of course she doesn’t. Owls don’t _speak._

“I-I need you to take a letter.” But such a letter doesn’t exist yet, and they both know that. She coos short and low as if to encourage him.

Harry walks over to his desk, plops into his chair, and scrambles to find a bit of parchment and a pen that works; he uses quills at the Ministry to show that he _tries,_ but will always prefer the smooth roll of a pen any day.

 _Malfoy,_ the letter begins. A good start.

_I apologize for my reaction at Andromeda’s earlier. I didn’t know that you two had reconnected._

Harry taps his pen to his lips in thought.

 _And we haven’t talked in a long time._ More than ten years, to be exact. _I was wondering if you’d like to grab a drink with me sometime? That way I can apologize in person._

_-Harry Potter_

Harry quickly folds up the note and sends Spotty off with it before he can think too much about what he has just done, but the regret creeps in as soon as Harry collapses back onto his bed. _Drinks?_ With _Draco Malfoy?_ Harry doesn’t even remember the last time he went out for drinks with any of his _actual_ friends.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep that night; the knot in his stomach refuses to unravel enough to let him slip away.


	2. Chapter 2

Dreams come full force like they do nearly every night, but it’s been ages since Harry dreamed of _Malfoy._ It used to happen more frequently when they were in school together - namely fifth year, but those dreams either bordered on nightmares or turned into something else entirely, something more...embarrassing.

Thankfully, tonight’s dream falls in the middle of the two poles. Harry dreams of the last time he saw Malfoy: at his trials.

 

Malfoy sits on the bench, back straight and stock still, staring straight ahead at nothing. His hair is matted with sweat but he’s shivering slightly - the only signs that Malfoy is nervous at all. Harry wants him to relax, to just incline his head just a little bit so Harry can properly catch his eye. If he does, Harry will point to the pile of papers sitting in front of him - his testimony that he and Hermione had spent many long nights writing - so Malfoy can see that Harry’s got his back.

But before Harry can speak a single word, a robed old man stands up from his bench at the front and intones, “5 years in Azkaban followed by 500 hours of community service. No chance of parole,” and suddenly the muscular men on either side of Malfoy who bear a striking resemblance to Crabbe and Goyle grab both of his arms and start dragging him out of the room.

Harry watches in horror as Malfoy doesn’t even struggle, doesn’t even bother to stand up on his own and walk, and doesn’t seem to acknowledge the ruling at all. He just lets himself be grabbed and dragged out the door like an empty luggage trolley.

Harry tries to scream, _Malfoy!,_ but his mouth refuses to open. Everyone around him has frozen: Hermione, the members of Wizengamot, the old man who delivered Malfoy’s sentence - everyone except for Malfoy and the men dragging him away. Malfoy’s eyes snap up to meet Harry’s just as the doors slam shut in front of his face.

 

Harry bolts out of bed.

The dream slips away from him as Harry gasps and wipes away a bead of sweat on his brow. When he reaches for the glass of water perched on his nightstand - probably courtesy of Kreacher - the dream is almost completely gone. The only trace remaining is Malfoy’s face at the very end: a little bit greener than usual, eyebrows drawn, and eyes wide.

It reminds him of the night before, when Harry had walked in on Malfoy playing the piano for Andromeda.

Spotty hoots sharply at Harry from the window. Upon noticing the small bit of parchment tied to her leg, Harry throws back his covers and practically sprints over.

_Potter,_

_A written apology is very much enough for me. I appreciate it._

_-DM_

“Fuck,” Harry bites out. Spotty hoots reproachfully at his language, but Harry can’t bring himself to care very much right now. His brain is processing, running through all the possible responses he could send and trying to figure out which one would be able to convince Malfoy to go out for drinks with him.

The end result is this:

_Malfoy,_

_I’m glad you accept my apology, but my offer for drinks still stands. Even if you don’t want an apology, I want to at least catch up - for old time’s sake. Please consider it._

_-HP_

As soon as Harry finishes the last “P,” Spotty swoops in, grabs the letter in her claws, and silently beats out of the room without being told. Harry sits back in his chair and prays.

After waiting around for a response for a few minutes - all the while squinting a little bit from the sunlight that insists on streaming into his room - he casts _Tempus:_ 8:47AM. Does Malfoy sleep in on Saturdays? _Actually,_ Harry realizes, _doesn’t everybody?_

He stands, stretches briefly, and heads downstairs to find something to eat. Recently, Harry has found himself skipping breakfast most days. Either he wakes up too late and has to quickly apparate to work, or he wakes up too early - 5:00AM, 6:00AM - and feels too queasy to eat until lunchtime.

But the nerves are getting to him today, Harry supposes. He opens the fridge and cabinets and even pokes around in the pantry that he can never summon up enough courage to clean, hoping Kreacher has been secretly hoarding an emergency ration of cornflakes. No such luck. All Harry finds is a carton of eggs with only one remaining. Harry is considering frying it when Spotty clicks her claws against his window.

When he opens it, she flies in and perches on his shoulder. He unties the piece of parchment attached to her leg and it reads:

_Potter,_

_As much as I know I will regret this, I accept your offer, but our meeting place and time are on my terms: 54 Handel Street, noon, tomorrow. Do be prompt._

_-DM_

As soon as Harry reads the note, and rereads it, and rereads it again, he slams it down onto the kitchen table, startling Spotty into finding another perch on the back of a chair, and starts cooking his breakfast with newfound strength.

Albeit a little unwillingly, _Malfoy said yes!_

Harry eats his breakfast (a single fried egg and a glass of almost-expired orange juice), does his laundry for the first time in weeks, and attacks his kitchen pantry with plenty of _Evanesco_ s and the occasional Kreacher, who mostly just tries to rescue and organize the piles of unidentified rotting foods. In between cleaning, Harry stands, half-propped up by the kitchen table, and watches the sun’s decline.

It’s long dark when Harry throws a pinch of Floo powder into the fireplace, announces, “The Granger-Weasley House” loudly and clearly, and steps through. Before Harry can gather his wits and stop his head from spinning, however, something collides into his legs and almost sends him back into the fireplace.

“Harry!”

Harry looks down. It’s Rose, clinging to his pant leg.

“Oh Harry, you’re here!” Hermione walks out from the kitchen and scoops Rose up. “Sorry about that. Rose, be nice.”

“I _am_ nice!”

Harry chuckles and takes Rose from Hermione as he emerges fully from the fireplace. She immediately latches onto him, clutching at the collar of his faded T-shirt. “Did you miss me?” He asks, teasing her.

“Yes,” Rose answers quite seriously. “You said last time that you were going to teach me how to fly!” Hermione groans; Harry had gotten Rose a toy broomstick for her fourth birthday earlier this year and she hasn’t stopped talking about it since.

“I will Rose, I promise, but not today.” Her whole body seems to deflate that at. “It’s too dark outside right now.”

“When, then? Tomorrow?”

Harry chuckles weakly, remembering with a jolt his plans with Malfoy the next day. “I can’t, I’m sorry. But sometime soon. Next weekend?” He looks to Hermione for confirmation.

She thinks for moment and answers, “I think that should be okay.” Then, she places a hand on Rose’s head and asks her, “Is next Saturday okay with you? Christmas Eve?”

Rose’s upper lip quirks, bringing Harry back to his Hogwarts days when frequently saw her very same expression on Ron’s face every time he tried to bullshit an essay. “I have to check my schedule,” Rose announces before scrambling out of Harry’s arms and running into the hallway, presumably heading to her room.

Alone now, Hermione’s smile slips off quickly. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” Harry heads toward the kitchen, looking around for something to do with his hands - cooking, setting the table, anything.

But he’s a fool. Hermione catches up easily and takes both his hands into her own. “Harry,” her voice catches with hesitation for a moment, “I think you need to see someone. I’m-” Harry groans. “-worried about you.”

“I don’t _need_ help. I’ve just been…busy. Overworked, you know? I’m _fine._ ” At that, Harry wrenches his hands out of Hermione’s grip and sits down at the table. It’s already been set, and steam rises enticingly from the pot of soup in the center. Harry turns his head to ask Hermione about the food and spots Ron sneaking up on her. He flashes an urgent look at Harry, and he knows what he must do.

“What’s this?” Harry asks, pointing to the soup.

Hermione sighs in exasperation. “Harry-” she begins, but that’s when Ron strikes: winding his arms around her middle and hugging. She shrieks, but once she sees who it is, they both dissolve into laughter.

“Alright, lovebirds. Let’s settle down.” Harry pats the chair next to him. “The food is going to get cold.”

They’re still giggling when they sit down and Harry resists a powerful urge to roll his eyes. These days, he’s not sure if he’s mildly disgusted or immensely jealous at their display. He wonders how they still seem so young. Fifteen fears after the war, one baby later, and they’re still in the honeymoon phase.

Just then, with a pitter-patter of feet, Rose runs into the kitchen.

Harry turns around, smiling. “Well?”

She beams back. “I’m free.”

“Good.” Hermione gestures to the food laid out on the table. “Would Rosie kindly try my cooking? It’s a new recipe.” Rose practically leaps into her chair.

They dig in. The soup is good (potato and chicken), and in between sips Harry thinks about Malfoy, and about how best to bring up their _get-together._ He imagines Ron would be confused - maybe even cross about it - but he hopes Hermione would have a better reaction. She was the one who helped him prepare his testimony for Malfoy’s trial, after all.

Suddenly, Harry realizes the background noise at the table - Rose’s enthusiastic slurps, Hermione and Ron’s conversation, and the gentle clinks their spoons made against the bowl - have all stopped. He looks up, and all three of them are looking right back at him.

Hermione begins. “Harry, we have something to tell you.” She threads her fingers through her daughter’s and husband’s.

Harry braces himself.

“I’m pregnant.”

Rose can’t resist piping up, “I’m gonna be a sister!”

Harry sits back into his chair. “Wow, that’s…” He runs his fingers through his hair. “That’s incredible. Congratulations.”

Hermione and Ron collectively let out a breath of relief. “We just found out this week,” Ron explains. “You’re the first person we’ve told.”

“You haven’t told Molly yet?”

They exchange slightly panicked looks. “We’re...building up to it,” Hermione says.

With a slight shudder, all three of them think back on when they told Molly about Rose. It was during Christmas, which was their first mistake, and it was after a lot of wine - which was their second.

“Anyways,” Ron shakes off the memories of that night, “We’re thinking about names.”

“Already? You don’t know their gender yet.”

Hermione waves a hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. Names are just names.”

They chat about name possibilities for the rest of dinner, though it seems that not much has changed since last time - when they were naming Rose. Hermione leans towards names of famous wizards, authors, and Muggle scientists, while Ron seems set on naming the child after some ancient Weasley to, as he claims, “make Mum happy.” _It’s a wonder they managed to name Rose at all_ , Harry thinks to himself as he sips his wine, watching the whole exchange.

At the end of the night, Ron ushers a yawning Rose to bed and Hermione sees Harry to the Floo. Before he can escape, she pulls him into a hug. “Tell me if something comes up, okay?”

Harry nods into her shoulder and she lets him go. The last thing he sees before the green flames whisk him away is his best-friend waving at him, concern etched on her face.

 

Grimmauld Place is dark and quiet when Harry stumbles back in. The ancient, Black furniture casts warped shadows in the moonlight, so Harry quickly spells the curtains shut. He pads into his kitchen - trying to be quiet for Kreacher and Spotty, both presumably already asleep - and glances at his liquor cabinet. He usually indulges after dinners with Hermione and Ron, but _not tonight_ , he decides. Hangovers are taking him longer and longer to get over, as he’s discovered in recent years. Harry doesn’t want to risk showing up hungover to his meetup with Malfoy.

 _Malfoy._ With all the excitement about the pregnancy and baby talk, Harry didn’t get a chance to bring him up. It seems so unimportant anyways, in comparison. Hermione and Ron’s family is growing. _That’s a big deal_ , though Harry wouldn’t know personally.

 _You could’ve. You should’ve, by now._ His brain taunts him by bring back the fantasies he used to have when he was still dating Ginny, or even when he was hunting Horcruxes. A big family. Ginny by his side. Their children would be friends with Rose, of course. They’d all meet at the Burrow for Christmas and the children would play together with their presents while the adults would chat and drink in their new sweaters.

Harry still goes to the Burrow for Christmas, and Ginny is still there, but they aren’t an item anymore, let alone parents. With Bill and Fleur still madly in love, Percy and his wife going steady, George and Angelina happily married for almost a decade, Charlie and his boyfriend going strong for longer, and Ginny with a different woman on her arm every year, Harry is the only one to show up alone. And Christmas is just around the corner.

Harry falls asleep and does not dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chad!Ginny Rights! 
> 
> Alt (The Onion) chapter title: "Man Knows He Must Ride Unexpected Urge To Clean As Far As It Will Take Him"


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Harry wakes up comfortable and warm in his sheets and surprisingly refreshed. When he throws open the dusty curtains, he’s surprised to find that snow had fallen overnight. _It’s about time,_ he thinks. Snow in London has come late this year - something attributed to Global Warming by scientists, according to the snippets of Muggle news Harry would catch while dozing in front of the telly.

Harry watches some neighborhood children, dressed up in puffy winter coats and caps, play around in the snow. A few are working together to build what looks to be a snow fort and a few others are lugging a sled down the street - _probably to the hill in the park,_ Harry muses. He’s only been there once or twice in all the years he’s lived in the neighborhood. Harry makes a mental note to visit sometime.

But now is not the time. Harry bustles over to the bathroom to shave and wash his face and take a piss - not necessarily in that order. Not even bothering with his bedhead, Harry inspects the contents of his closet afterwards and emerges with the only button down shirt he owns - the one Hermione made him buy when they went to a fancy Muggle restaurant for Rose’s birthday last year. _It’ll have to do._ Harry spells the time and curses.

A few minutes later, he’s running down Handel Street in the middle of Muggle London, sweating under his jacket. 54 Handel Street turns out to be a small cafe nestled between a fancy-looking hotel and some unmarked corporate building. The sign in front is chipped, but the words _The Grace Note_ still shimmer on it in gold paint and intricate brushstrokes. Harry enters and the bell jingles.

“Welcome!” The barista calls, but Harry barely hears her. He’s searching the tables for blond hair and a disapproving frown. Harry is almost ten minutes late. But the cafe is mostly empty and Malfoy is nowhere to be seen.

Harry marches up to the counter “Excuse me.” The barista waits for him to catch his breath. “Have you seen a tall, blond man in here?”

Her eyebrows lift. “Draco? Not yet, no. Are you meeting him?”

“Ye-yeah.”

“Well,” she checks her watch, “he should be here any minute now. He usually comes in a bit after noon. Do you want to order something while you wait?”

“Oh, uh, yes. Please. One coffee, extra cream.” Harry hands her a few bills he finds stuffed in his back pocket.

Giving Harry a slight smile and handing him the change, she says, “Perfect. I’ll bring it around soon.” Then, she gestures to a table near the front window. “You might want to sit there. That’s his favorite spot.”

Harry can barely manage a nod. He sits at the table, _Malfoy’s favorite table._ It’s bright and loud here. Both natural sunlight and the lights in the shop illuminate the surface, and Harry can hear the ambient noises of the coffeeshop through one ear and the busy London street through the other. It’s a strange pick for Malfoy, Harry feels. Not one that Harry would have guessed or even chosen for himself, but it’s still nice.

The cashier brings his coffee and Harry sips it gratefully while he examines the coffee shop and waits. The only patrons are a business woman eating a sandwich and watching something on her laptop and a teenage boy texting with a half-finished fruit parfait in front of him. The shop itself is small, with some tables lining the window like the one Harry is sitting at and some couches sitting on top of a plush rug in the middle of the floor. Classical music plays on the speakers, barely audible over the various machinery behind the counter. The smell of something chocolate-y drifts over to Harry from the oven in the corner and his stomach reminds him that he didn’t eat breakfast.

Nearly thirty minutes and a second coffee pass before Harry spots Malfoy walking down the street in a long, dark blue coat and complementary gray scarf. Harry waves at him through the glass but Malfoy doesn’t seem to see him.

When Malfoy enters the coffee shop with a jingle of the bell, the barista looks up and calls to him: “Hey Draco. Your friend’s over there.” Malfoy’s head turns and, seeing his impassive face and piercing eyes, Harry shrinks into his jacket. Malfoy turns back around, orders with a voice so soft he’s inaudible, and walks over to Harry.

“Potter,” he greets him.

“Hi.”

Malfoy sits and flashes him an easy, graceful smile. “Forgive me, for being late.”

Harry shakes his head, transfixed. “It’s fine.”

Silence settles for a moment as Harry stirs his cold coffee and resolutely refuses to meet Malfoy’s eyes, the ones that Harry can feel searching his face. The barista comes and places a coffee and a sandwich in front of Malfoy. He tears it in half and offers it to Harry. It looks to be of the ham variety. “Hungry?”

Harry stares at it for a moment before taking it. “Thank you.” He hesitates. “How did you find this place?”

“A co-worker recommended me.” Malfoy is still smiling.

“Oh. Where do you work?”

The smile freezes on Malfoy’s face, but only for a second. “Small jobs, here and there. Part-time.” He pauses to take a sip from his cup. “Is this what you meant by ‘catching up?”

“Ye-yeah? I’ve just been wondering what you’ve been up to.”

“Since the trials?”

 _Straight to the point._ “Yeah.”

He starts on his sandwich and Harry follows suit with his half. “Well, I completed my 500 hours of community service, as you know.”

“Mhm.”

Harry tries not to stare too hard at his Adam’s apple as he swallows. “And from then on, like I mentioned before, I’ve been in and out of all kinds of jobs. I’m currently playing regularly for a Muggle jazz club.” Malfoy says the last sentence casually, as if it were completely _normal_ and _expected_ for the heir to the Malfoy line to be a jazz musician for a living.

“J-jazz?”

Malfoy smirks a little bit, though not unkindly. “Never heard of jazz before, Potter?”

Harry splutters, “I have! Of course I have. I just-” Harry has to break eye contact with Malfoy; he’d forgotten since Hogwarts how intense his eyes could get. “-was surprised, that’s all. I didn’t know you liked music.”

“It was a hobby of mine, when I was a child. My father thought it would instill culture in me,” He chuckles and traces the rim of his coffee cup.

“Even though it’s a Muggle instrument?”

“Are you sure about that?” 

“What?”

A sly smile. “Nevermind.”

Their conversation lulls and Harry’s mind races, desperate to keep it flowing. Flakes of snow are still raining down outside, and streams of people tightly bundled in their winter coats flow down the sidewalk, right in front of the window Harry and Malfoy are sitting at. The barista is wiping down the counter while humming a little tune to herself.

“So, what about you, Potter? What have _you_ been up to?”

Internally cringing, Harry tries to answer his question as best he can without revealing too much, “Oh...you know...working at the Ministry.”

“Ah, yes, I do remember catching the occasional headline in the news. Auror Department, correct?”

 _Barely._ “Yeah.”

“Must be quiet lately.”

“Actually…there’s been an uptick. A resurgence.”

A blond eyebrow quirks up and Malfoy’s face creases. “A resurgence. Of-”

“Yeah. Of Death Eaters. We call them ‘neo-Death Eaters.”

“Oh my.” Malfoy sits back into his chair, sandwich gone and coffee half-finished. He’s gone a bit green in the face. “I haven’t heard of this.”

Harry admits, “It’s pretty bad. We’re keeping it out of the papers for now.”

“Do they have a specific motive?”

Harry gets the feeling that maybe it would be unwise to go any further, especially with Malfoy as a former Death Eater _._ But when he looks across the table at him, into his features drawn with concern and earnest eyes, he can’t bring himself to be the paranoid jerk he often was in Hogwarts. They’ve graduated. It’s been fifteen, long years, since the War, and Malfoy has already paid his price.

So he makes the executive decision to, basically, not give a fuck.

Malfoy and Harry spend the next fifteen or so minutes chatting about the details of the situation in hushed tones - even though the Muggles around them wouldn’t understand or even care. Malfoy is an attentive, engaging listener, and the more he learns about the neo-Death Eaters and their movement, the deeper the furrow in his brow gets.

At the end of the fifteen minutes, Malfoy pushes his sleeve back and checks his watch. His _watch._

“Sorry-am I keeping you?”

“Er-yes.” He adds quickly, “It’s alright, this was my fault, so I apologize. I didn’t plan for enough time for us to catch up and I have to be somewhere soon.”

“Where?” The question slips out before Harry’s common sense has a chance to stop him.

This seems to catch Malfoy off guard. “A-an orphanage. I’m going to volunteer.”

“I-uh. Huh?”

“Articulate as ever, Potter,” Malfoy quips, but without much bite. He drums the side of his coffee mug with his fingers and alternates between meeting Harry’s eyes and watching the pedestrians outside.

“I-I mean-”

“Not that I blame you. Many have had your exact reaction. It’s the War Orphanage that I was assigned to volunteer at as part of my sentence, ten years ago. Though most of the kids have aged out. Now, it’s mostly a normal orphanage.” With one fluid motion Malfoy brings his coffee to his lips.

“I-What do you do there?”

“What else Potter? I play with the children.” The light condescension in Malfoy’s tone sends a shiver down Harry’s spine. It brings back memories. The mug is back on the table now, but Malfoy’s finger lingers, tracing the rim. Harry stares at the movement as his mind turns over all the new information.

“I’ll go with you.”

“What?”

Harry winces. “Sorry. I mean, can I go with you?”

Malfoy’s eyes narrow and the finger on the mug stops. “Why?”

“I’m just...curious.”

“Hm.” Malfoy turns his head and regards the world out the window. The snow has stopped, but plenty of it remains on the ground in icy piles. Harry prepares himself for flat, resolute rejection, but it never comes. “Okay,” Malfoy decides, “But it’s Muggle, so be careful what you say. They don’t know the whole story of the War - or even that there was a war at all. To them, terrorists killed their parents.”

Harry nods, heart in his throat.

“Let’s go, then.” Malfoy stands and buttons his coat. Pointing to the uneaten half of Harry’s portion of sandwich, he asks, “Are you going to finish that?”

Harry scarfs it down in record time, and the two leave the cafe.

Muggle London is busier than Harry remembers it. There are more tourists now, and they all move in huge crowds - clustering in front of hotels and restaurants with furry winter coats and cameras in hand. Malfoy leads Harry around them, down streets, and across intersections. _Was London always this big?_

They take a right and Malfoy stops in front of the tall brown building on the corner. “This is it.” He rings the bell and they wait.

When the door opens, a cheerful-looking young woman stands in the doorway with a baby in her arms and a toddler clutching her skirts. “Draco!” Her eyes flit to Harry. “And a friend. Come in, come in. Sorry for the state of things; Steven made a mess on the floor again.” As soon as she closes her mouth, the baby begins to wail. “Oh dear, I think it’s time for a diaper change. Come in, come in, I’ll just be a moment.”

Harry and Malfoy step inside, careful to avoid the letter blocks strewn across the linoleum. The woman waves them over to what seems to be a sitting room that was repurposed into a large playroom before disappearing up the stairs, the cries of the baby bouncing off the walls and echoing around the house.

Toys practically cover the floor of the playroom; everything from Legos to dolls to toy cars pile on top of each other. A few squashy-looking armchairs stand in the corner with a tarp thrown over the top, creating a tent of some sort. When they enter, three children tumble out.

“Draco!” They run to Malfoy and crowd around.

“Welcome back!” The smallest one squeaks. He looks to be about 4 or 5 years old. When his eyes lands on Harry, he asks, “Who are you?”

Harry hesitates, but Malfoy doesn’t. “An old friend,” he replies smoothly.

The kids look at Harry expectantly. All he can manage is a small wave and: “Er. Hi. Name’s Harry.”

They murmur a few greetings, not looking too impressed. Malfoy gives him an apologetic look.

The tallest one, maybe a girl of about seventeen refocuses the attention on Malfoy, “How’d your performance go?”

Malfoy smiles. “It was a fantastic success, of course. Your choice of music went over very well.” Then, he reaches into a pocket in his coat, pulls out a handful of notes, and holds them out to the girl. “Here.”

She pockets them without hesitation and says with a slight smirk, “You didn’t have to.”

“You earned it.”

“What’d you play?” The other girl asks.

Suddenly, the toddler starts tugging on Malfoy’s coat. “Play for us!”

Malfoy’s smile moves to one side and his eyes are suddenly downcast. “I haven’t practiced the piece since the show…”

“Play anything, then!”

“Yeah, what are you working on now?”

With a heavy sigh and a blooming smile, Malfoy shrugs off his coat and unwinds his scarf. “Fine.” He tosses the coat and scarf to Harry, who catches them out of reflex. They’re warm with Malfoy’s body heat. Malfoy casts a small glance at Harry with a twinkle in his eye.

They then move to an adjoining room - the kitchen - and it’s somehow even more hectic than the living room. The counters are cluttered with papers which, upon closer inspection, are colorful crayon drawings. The dining table is in a similar state, and in the corner stands a small piano. It’s not the same kind that’s in Andromeda’s house - that one’s a grand but this one is an upright, Harry thinks it’s called. And it doesn’t have the sleek, black finish that Andromeda’s has either but rather a brown, chipping coat of paint.

Malfoy drags the bench out from underneath and sits though it groans in protest underneath him. The kids gather around, opting to sit on the floor rather than the kitchen chairs. Harry plops down on one of them and the woman from before rejoins them, taking a seat in a chair beside him with the baby quiet and still in her arms. She has two other children in tow - one a toddler and one who seems about the same age as the older girl who received the notes.

Silence descends as everyone watches Malfoy who, seemingly oblivious to the pressure, flexes his wrist and runs his fingers up and down the keyboard. When he’s done, his hands fall on his lap, and he stills for a moment before laying his hands on the keys again and beginning to play.

The song is...nice. It’s light and upbeat and Harry finds himself almost tapping his foot to the rhythm or swaying to the beat. He doesn’t, of course, but everyone else does: the children, the woman, _Merlin, even the baby seems to be enjoying it._

And when it’s over, Malfoy stands up, smiles, and bows amidst applause.

“I love that one!” Says the older girl from before.

Malfoy opens his mouth to reply, but just then the woman yelps in alarm while staring at the clock over the piano. “Dan, Angelica, you’re going to be late!”

The older girl and the older boy that the woman had walked in with scramble for the door in a panic. Malfoy asks above the pandemonium, “Where are you two going?”

“We’re volunteering at the pound! Sorry, Draco, we’ll talk to you next time,” Angelica yells on her way out, letting the door slam.

The woman pats Malfoy’s arm. “I’m sorry, I completely forgot to tell you.”

“It’s fine.” He smiles at her and lifts the baby out of her arms. “It’s the perfect chance for me to spend more time with the little ones.”

The woman stands and sighs. “A break for me, I guess.” She turns, sees Harry, and gasps. “Oh, I’m _so_ sorry. How rude of me for not introducing myself.” She sticks out a hand. “I’m Patricia, but you can just call me Pat. I’m the caretaker.”

Harry grasps her hand cautiously. “Harry Potter.”

If she recognizes the name at all, she doesn’t show it. Usually Muggles aren’t a problem, but Harry has encountered the occasional person who had vaguely heard of him and would be convinced that he was some lesser-known celebrity. “Nice to meet you. Friend of Draco’s?”

Desperately, Harry looks to Malfoy for help, but the git is feigning deafness and playing with the baby. “Er, yes. We went to school together.”

“Oh, the one over in America?”

 _What?_ “Y-yes.”

She whistles. “Sounded like a fancy one. Draco told me it had a lake on campus?”

“Uh, yeah, it did. Froze over during the winter and everything.” _And a giant squid called it home,_ Harry thinks to himself, but doesn’t add.

“You and Draco ever go ice-skating? Was it big enough?”

“No not really. And I-I think so,” Harry says lamely. Malfoy snorts a little, but doesn’t comment.

“That sounds fun. I've always wanted to go ice skating.” She yawns. “I’ll leave you to it, Draco. Going to lie down for a bit. Nice to meet you Harry.” With a wave of the hand, she’s gone, leaving Harry alone in the kitchen with Draco Malfoy, a baby, and a few small children who’ve been tinkering away at the piano during their conversation. Harry is beginning to sweat a little.

“Draco!” The two kids call from the bench - their feet not even reaching the floor. “Teach us!”

“Of course.” Malfoy looks at Harry. “Can you handle this one?”

Harry nods and takes the baby from his arms. An hour passes in relative peace. While Malfoy chats animatedly with the children and show them the proper hand form, Harry sits the baby on his leg and watches the two toddlers as they play some sort of wobbly game of tag through the rooms.

The orphanage itself seems to be a repurposed house, complete with faded marks where furniture or picture frames used to exist. Normally, the house would be too cramped to hold this many children, but the lack of proper furniture allows for more room. It seems the main expenses in the orphanage are, from the look of the enormous fridge and the toys scattered everywhere: food and toys.

 _If Mum didn’t have a sister, would I have ended up here?_ Harry can’t help imagining himself growing up here instead of with the Dursley’s; he would have had friends - siblings, almost - a caretaker, and food in his stomach. No Dudley, no Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, and no cupboards.

“Potter.”

Harry’s head snaps up. “Huh?”

“Did you fall asleep?” Malfoy does not sound impressed.

“No?” He kind of did.

He sighs and gets up from the bench. “Let’s go.”

“Already?” The children complain and plead, but Malfoy shakes his head, smiling his soft smile, and takes his coat and scarf back from Harry.

“I’ll see you all after Christmas. I’ll get you something.” He goes to wake Pat, who stumbles into the kitchen a little blearily and takes the baby from Harry.

“Thanks for all your help. See you in two weeks, Draco?” Malfoy nods. “Merry Christmas, then. And to you, too.” She smiles at Harry.

They take their leave, and with one final wave to Pat and the children crowded on the doorstep, they round the corner and are alone again.

“What was the song you played?”

Waiting a bit before answering, Malfoy turns his head slightly to regard Harry out of the corner of his eye. Harry shivers. “It’s a Clementi Sonatina. And it’s a _piece,_ not a ‘song’.”

“Oh. Well. It was nice.”

“It’s a crowd favorite.”

“Why didn’t you ever play at Hogwarts?”

Malfoy fiddles with his scarf and mumbles. “There wasn’t a piano, obviously. And I was a bit busy around that time, if you’ll recall.”

They’re swerving into potentially dangerous territory now. Harry tries his best to steer them back onto the right track. “You said you perform regularly now, right? At the jazz club?”

“Indeed.”

“I-I’d like to come and watch sometime. If you’d let me.”

At that, Malfoy stops and turns around. “Why?” His tone is questioning, even a bit alarmed.

“I...think you play well. And I’m curious.”

The compliment seems to placate Malfoy. He huffs but turns back around and continues walking. “I’ll let you know when the next one is,” he calls over his shoulder.

They reach the cafe from before, and a glance inside tells Harry that it’s just as quiet and empty as before. The barista notices them and gives them a slight wave.

“Goodbye, Potter.” But before Malfoy can leave, Harry grabs his hand.

“I’ll owl you,” he promises, cringing internally at what this looks like. He hopes the barista isn’t paying attention anymore.

Malfoy allows his hand to be held for a split second longer than Harry thought he would. “I look forward to it then,” he says without a single note of sarcasm in his voice. He promptly turns on his heel, disappears down a side alley, and is gone with a _crack._

The sky seems so much brighter all of a sudden. Harry takes his time walking back to Grimmauld Place, humming the - what was it - _Clementine_ piece the whole way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could tell you that I wrote down and remembered the specific Clementi piece that I was drawing off of in this chapter but alas...I am Boo Boo The Fool....But seriously though pretty much all of Clementi's pieces are upbeat so if that's your cup of tea then I'd suggest looking him up!


	4. Chapter 4

It’s still snowing when Harry wakes up the next morning. The flakes mind their own business on the other side of the glass as Harry gets dressed, pushes away the cuppa Kreacher offers him, and summons his broom - the Pulsar, the newest model, gifted to Harry free of charge so long as he rides it everywhere.

When Harry steps out the door and kicks off, what was only a slight, playful breeze on the ground becomes a full blown windstorm high in the air. Even with all the visibility-enhancing charms on the broom and his glasses, Harry can barely see past the tip of his nose. But still Harry flies on, hunched over his broom and casting _Point Me_ from time to time so he doesn’t get blown off course. He hasn’t missed Christmas decorating upkeep with Hagrid for the past 6 years, and he doesn’t plan on starting now.

Thankfully, the wind dies down a bit after an hour of flying. The world below Harry is white and quiet again. He’s following the Hogwarts Express’ route, though its last trip of the year was yesterday morning - bringing Hogwarts students back home for the holidays. _It’s funny_ , Harry thinks. _I still spends my holidays at Hogwarts._

The castle looms at last, after the sun has begun its descent. Harry touches down at the Lake and walks the rest of the way.

Hagrid’s hut has remained mostly unchanged, but next to it now stands a larger hut: Gawp’s place. Gawp comes and goes, never really able to decide between the Forest and the hut, but he always retreats into the Forest in the winter - _‘s warmer there,_ Hagrid explained once, but Harry never fully grasped the logic.

Fang’s successor, Cane, hears Harry before Hagrid does; he paws and whines at the door, already smelling and recognizing his friend.

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’. Hold _off_ Cane.” The door opens and the dog practically leaps into Harry’s arms, licking every inch of exposed skin. Hagrid chuckles. “Welcome back ‘arry. Sorry abou’ Cane - he’s bin cooped up in ‘ere all winter.”

They step into the hut and shut the cold out. Harry lets out a sigh of relief as he loosens his muffler, relishing the warmth of the fire.

“Tea?” Hagrid holds up a cup.

“Yeah, thanks,” Harry replies, scratching Cane’s stomach. The dog whines and wriggles on the floor in pure ecstasy - his tail hitting the floor so hard Harry can feel its vibrations through his boots. He’s smaller than Fang was, and even though he’s undoubtedly an adult dog, Hagrid insists that he still has some growing to do.

Harry’s mostly just glad Hagrid has been able to move on from Fang’s passing a few years ago.

“Alright, ‘arry?”

Harry shakes off his thoughts. “I’m alright. How’s the term so far?”

“Good, I think. The firs’ years get bolder an’ bolder every year. One o’ them the other day nearly got ‘is hand taken off by a kneazle. A _kneazle._ ” He shakes his head before handing Harry a steaming cup of tea and taking a long sip from his own.

The tea warms Harry’s hands as he chuckles and reflects on his time in Hagrid’s class, trying not to die by Flobberworm. “I heard Neville’s working here now?” Hermione had told him, obviously hopeful that they would reconcile.

“Yup. Apprentissin’ for Sprout now.”

Unfortunately, it looks like Harry’s several year long-streak of successfully avoiding Neville will end soon. He tries to channel the sudden shaking of his hands into sipping his tea and petting Cane, whose eyes are getting droopy.

“By the way, have you gotten an owl from Hermione and Ron yet?”

Hagrid gasps and slams his cup down on the table, jolting Cane awake for a split second, before he huffs in annoyance and his head falls back on his arms. “Abou’ the baby, innit?”

“Yes..?”

“I was in the fores’ with Gawp when it came! Read the letter an’ maybe got a little too excited - I think the centaurs are mad at me again.” He shrugs. “Oh well. More tea?”

“Please.” Hagrid pours. “How’s Madame Maxime?” There’s a clink and a splash as Hagrid’s hand falters, the tea landing outside the cup.

“Sorry-” Harry begins before Hagrid cuts him off.

His face now especially red in the light of the fire, he tugs at his beard and mutters, “She’s alrigh’.”

Harry almost has to wrestle the grin off his face. “Really?”

“...Really.”

There is a pause. Hagrid’s next words come softly - barely even audible.

“She wants ter get married.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate for a moment and wraps Hagrid in a hug and laughs into his shoulder. “It’s about time!”

“I know, I know.” Little by little, Hagrid comes out of the shell he’s retreated into. “I was thinkin’ this summer would be good. I’ll take her down ter the sea or sommat.”

_Always a romantic._

“She’ll love that.”

“Yeh really think so?”

“Yeah, of course.”

He relaxes a bit, leans back in his chair, and reaches down to stroke Cane. They listen to the crackling of the flames for a bit, and, in the direction of the Forest, Harry hears rustling trees and wonders if it’s Gawp. Cane snores openly and his chest rises and falls with an intoxicating rhythm. Snow has started falling again, and the snowflakes cast shadows with the light slanting through the window.

“Well,” Hagrid stands, “Yeh wanna head over now? Before the snow gets bad.”

Setting his cup on the table, Harry stands too. “Good plan.”

They leave the hut and trek up to the castle. The snow is unbroken except for a few large footsteps and pawprints here and there. Everything is silent, calm even. Possibly the only remaining place left in the Wizarding world where Harry can exist alongside peace is Hogwarts over Christmas break.

Once in the castle, Harry and Hagrid split up. Hagrid traverses the castle, visiting the ghosts he stationed around the castle to watch the Christmas decorations (a responsibility he had to take on after some students starting vandalizing the decorations a few years back: charming the mistletoes to follow students around, the wreaths to encircle necks and not come off, etc.)

Harry checks a few of the decorations with the more complex spells - silver tinsel twisting in the air like dragons, a Christmas tree on the second floor corridor charmed to bellow out various Celestina Warbeck Christmas hits, and the smattering of mistletoe clippings hanging in doorways that quiver in anticipation when people come close. At one point, Peeves bursts in through the ceiling and promptly crashes into all the tinsel and knots them together. It takes Harry almost an hour to untangle them, even with magic, and once he does, it’s suppertime.

In contrast to previous years, the Great Hall is surprisingly full. It looks as if almost a fourth of the school had elected to stay, when only a handful did last year. Very few are sitting segregated by House. A mixed group of Slytherins, Hufflepuffs, Gryffindors, and Ravenclaws are playing what looks to be a very tense game of Exploding Snap at the end of the Hufflepuff table.

As Harry approaches the empty seat next to the new Potions professor - Professor Gill - the students behind him quiet a little and stare at his back. Hagrid is already seated at the High Table, talking animatedly with Professor Sprout. Neville doesn’t seem to be here yet, Harry notices - or maybe he has already gone home for the holidays. Harry hopes it’s the latter. Headmistress McGonagall catches Harry’s eye and nods slightly.

The professor next to her turns to look at whoever she just nodded at. He’s familiar: blond, snooty-looking with an ever-present smirk. So familiar, in fact, that Harry swears he saw him just yesterday.

Draco Malfoy’s eyes widen almost comically before he quickly regains his composure. They nod civilly in a silent agreement: _we’ll talk later._

Supper passes peacefully. Professor Gill, who joined the staff only a year ago, is easy-going and a never-ending well of good conversation. They explain to Harry their research into Wolfsbane and its scores of properties still unknown to Potion Masters around the world. A few students summon the courage to approach Harry for autographs on their copy of the final volume of Harry Potter’s seven-volume biography and he obliges.

After supper, as students and professors alike bid farewell before retiring for the night, Harry watches Malfoy slip away in the direction of the Slytherin common room. Harry follows behind him, trying to figure out what to say.

But Harry quickly finds that others had the same idea. A group of ten students pass Harry and swarm Malfoy.

"Professor Malfoy!"

"We really enjoyed the pre-reading you assigned."

"Yes! Especially the chapter about the chord progressions, that was incredible."

"And we’ve been wondering - where are you conducting your research?"

Without any hesitation, Malfoy gives them the same gentle smile that Harry saw yesterday at the orphanage.

"Thank you, I'm glad you found it interesting. I look forward to seeing you all in class tomorrow - I have something fun planned. And my 'lab' is currently my apartment."

At this small morsel of information, the group of students burst into noise and activity again. They hurl question after question at Malfoy, and he patiently answers every single one as they walk through the corridors. When they turn a corner at the end of a corridor, Harry lets them go. It doesn't seem that he'll get a chance to talk to Malfoy alone - at least not tonight.

As some sort of compromise with himself, Harry leans against the wall and digs out the Marauder's Map that he had stuffed in his back pocket. The dot named Draco Malfoy, flanked by several other dots, moves through the castle at a steady pace. It’s not an illusion. No charms or trickery. That’s Draco Malfoy in the flesh, looking equal parts dignified and approachable in his long, flowy robes. Harry suddenly isn't sure what he's looking for, so he folds the Map back up and makes his way back to Hagrid's hut.

"Welcome back." Hagrid greets Harry at the door, one big hand holding Cane back from slobbering all over Harry's face.

"Hey."

"Alright?"

"Mm?" Harry takes off his robes and hangs them to dry on a chair. "Er, yeah."

Hagrid settles back into his reclining chair with Cane gnawing at an alarmingly large bone at his feet. The fire crackles loudly, sounding like an invitation to Harry.

Just then, Harry realizes why he was so off-put by seeing Malfoy. "Wait. There is something."

"Hm?" Hagrid has a mouth full of tea.

"What's Malfoy doing here?"

"Oh!" Hagrid swallows and sputters a little in his haste to answer. "McGonagall didn' tell yeh?"

Harry plops down on the chair opposite Hagrid. "Tell me what?"

"He's teaching a special course right now. Just for the holidays. Musical Theory, or sommat like that."

"Musical Theory?"

"Yep. It's a popular one already, if you couldn't tell. Lots o' kids chose to stay just because of it."

Despite his efforts to imagine what a "Musical Theory" class with Malfoy could be like, Harry can't conjure up anything. Perhaps Malfoy is teaching them piano? Or other instruments? A sudden image of the Hogwarts student body in dress robes playing an orchestral concert invades Harry's mind.

"Maybe McGonagall is trying to introduce a few bits of Muggle culture..." Though why so many students would be interested remains a mystery to Harry. The War may be over, but prejudices remain as difficult as ever to let go.

Hagrid lets out a booming laugh at that. “Muggle culture? Musical Theory is abou’ magic, ‘arry.”

“What do you mean?”

Hagrid tries his best to explain it to Harry, but the half-giant doesn’t have a good enough grasp on the topic himself so his efforts are in vain. At the end of his explanation, all Harry can gather is that there’s magic in music somehow.

He’s still thinking about it hours later, huddled up next to Cane on the floor in his bedroll, trying extract heat from the dog and the last glowing embers in the fireplace. Even with Hagrid’s periodic, almost earth-shaking snores to distract it, Harry’s mind can’t stop going back to Malfoy and his class.

At one point Harry even takes the Map back out to check on Malfoy’s dot - just as he used to do in fifth year. The dot is resting comfortably in the spare room in the Astronomy tower. Harry keeps staring at it in hopes that it might give him some clue as to what is going through its owner’s mind. He thought he had Malfoy figured out from their meeting yesterday, but he never even gave a _hint_ that he was involved in something like _this._

 _After all these years_ , Harry thinks as his eyes droop wearily, _I still can’t get a handle on Draco Malfoy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Hagrid so much.......he and Madame Maxine are my otp tbh


	5. Chapter 5

Harry’s in the process of rubbing his bleary eyes and making his way to the Great Hall for breakfast when he glimpses a tall, blonde man turn the corner in front of him. He whips around to see Malfoy practically jogging down the hall with his head down.

“Malfoy!” Malfoy does not stop. “Oi!” Harry runs to catch up with him.

Malfoy looks back at Harry, sighs, and stops. There are many heavy-looking books tucked in his arms - Harry spots what seems to be a Muggle Physics textbook.

“Yes?”

Harry blurts out, “Do you need help with those?”

One sleek, blonde eyebrow quirks up. “No.”

But Harry can see Malfoy’s arms trembling under his robes and hear the tension in his voice - naturally, he points it out.

“You’re shaking.”

“So?” Malfoy bites out, turning on his heel to continue walking. Harry easily keeps up.

“Where are you headed?”

“None of your business.”

“Malfoy-”

Something snaps in him; Malfoy comes to a dead stop and begins some sort of rant with: “Potter-!” but before another word can leave his mouth, the books that had been slowly slipping out of his grasp tumble painfully onto both his and Harry’s feet.

They both step back as a reaction to the pain, cursing and wincing. Malfoy stares at the books scattered on the floor in silence before his shoulders hunch in defeat. “You’re in charge of the heavy ones. And hurry up, I’m already late,” he quips at Harry. He then scoops up the smaller, flimsier paperbacks and continues stomping down the hall again - maybe with a little limp this time.

Grinning, Harry collects the textbooks - _boy, they’re heavy_ \- and follows close behind.

They walk in tenuous silence, and it’s a long walk too. It seems, for whatever reason, Malfoy’s destination happens to be on the exact opposite side of the castle - or maybe he’s just fucking with Harry. Both are very distinct possibilities.

After turning one final corner, the pair is met with the sight of the same group of students from last night sitting in front of a classroom door and chatting. They perk up at the sight of Malfoy and Harry and scramble to their feet.

“Good morning Professor!” They intone almost in unison. A few of them also greet Harry, albeit shyly.

Some run up and ask, “Do you need help with these, sir?” referring to the small stack of paperbacks Malfoy’s holding in one hand.

“No thank you. Just take your seats, please.” Malfoy brushes past them and breezes into the classroom. The kids follow suit all-too eagerly. Only a few glance at Harry and none of them offer to help with the ridiculously and probably pointlessly thick Muggle textbooks he’d managed to lug up several staircases.

“Books here, Potter,” Malfoy commands Harry with a finger jabbing at an empty spot on his desk at the front of the room. He has already set down the paperbacks and is deftly unbuttoning the top buttons of his robe and unwinding the scarf coiled around his neck.

Harry trudges up to the front and plunks the books down on the desk. Without thanking Harry, Malfoy picks up the first textbook of the top and wastes no time in launching into his lecture.

“As I promised last night, I’ve brought a few Muggle textbooks - mostly elementary physics - and several scores from my personal collection.”

Harry spots an empty desk in the front left corner and quietly slides into the seat. He looks around to see if anyone is staring at him or questioning his continued presence in the classroom, but every single student’s attention is already focused on Malfoy and words coming from his mouth.

“I don’t want this class to consist of just lecture. You all get enough of that the rest of the year. I want this class to be interactive.” Malfoy starts passing out the textbooks and paperbacks. “It’s one thing for me to explain my research, but it’s another thing altogether for you to _do_ the research.”

The students _ooh_ and _ahh_ at the books as they begin to pore over them. Harry glances at the physics textbook his neighbor receives, but can’t figure out anything on the page that might be even slightly interesting.

“For class today, I want you all to pair up: physics textbooks with the urtexts, and as a team research one of the many links between music and magic that you read about in preparation for this class. Chord progressions - both Western and Eastern - Majors, and Minors - all and more are available as options to look into. Feel free to consult any arithmancy notes you may possess. See me if you have questions. I am happy to help.” With that, Malfoy takes a seat at his desk and pulls out some parchment.

Harry is lost.

He turns to the pair of students working beside him and asks, “Could I just watch you two for a bit?”

They give him a confused, but kind look. “Are you joining this class, Mr. Potter?”

 _Mr. Potter._ It sounds strange coming from a teenager.

“No.” He’s a little embarrassed that it was their first guess. “I happened to run into Ma-Professor Malfoy and offered to carry his books in exchange with sitting in for a bit. I’m pretty interested in this uh...stuff.” Harry gestures vaguely toward the books sitting on their combined desk.

Thankfully, they take pity on him and stop asking questions. “Oh. Okay! I’m Sophia,” the curly-haired girl with a Hufflepuff scarf hanging off her chair says while extending a hand. Harry shakes it hesitantly. “My pronouns are she, her, and hers.”

The other, a boy dressed in black robes with a green trim also introduces himself. “I’m Lucas. He, him, his. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Sophia swats at Lucas’ shoulder, laughing. “ _Everyone’s_ heard a lot about him you dummy!”

Lucas grins at her, but doesn’t try to defend himself. Harry gingerly takes his still-outstretched hand and shakes it.

“So….” Harry begins but doesn’t know where or how to end.

“Right!” Sophia exclaims. “The project!”

“Do you both…know what you’re doing?”

“Yes.” “Nope!”

Harry snorts.

Rolling his eyes, Lucas rolls up the sleeves of his robe and opens the hefty physics textbook. “This is what you get for not doing the reading, Sophia.”

Sophia huffs and opens up the other book. “I was busy!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Wait.” Sophia touches Lucas’ shoulder. “What are we looking for again? Did we even decide on a _topic_?” Upon realizing that no, they hadn’t decided what to research, the pair dissolve into laughter.

Harry sneaks a look at Malfoy. He’s still hunched over the desk with a few strands of blonde hair hanging over his eyes. Underneath his robes, he’s wearing a light tan sweater with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Harry’s eyes linger there, and when they look back up again they meet Malfoy’s.

The git smirks at Harry again and stretches luxuriously before getting out of his seat and sauntering over.

“How are you two faring” He asks, completely ignoring Harry.

Sophia and Lucas, having finally decided on a topic, beam up at him. “Well, professor! We’ve decided to research chord progressions,” Sophia explains.

Malfoy grins back. “Ah, excellent choice. They’re my favorite subject.”

“By the way, professor,” Lucas ventures, “would you ever be willing to play for us sometime? As a class?”

Not answering immediately, Malfoy brushes back the strands of hair that had shaken loose from his usual slicked-back style. “I’ll...see. I’m only here for a week more, after all, the curriculum is tight, and I have my own research taking up all my freetime.”

Sophia lets out a little gasp. “You’re not coming back?”

“Well…” Malfoy’s eyebrows draw up slightly. He looks extremely weary, all of a sudden. “I’ll try to. But this class is only a trial run for now.”

Noticing his discomfort, Sophia begins to profusely apologize. “Oh I’m so sorry sir! I just meant that it would be fantastic to include your class officially, but I completely understand if you wouldn’t want to stay.”

Malfoy summons up a small smile and reassures her, “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

Malfoy moves on to other students after that, and Harry spends the rest of class trying to help Sophia and Lucas with their project mostly by obeying their instructions (“Can you look up the definition of these words on page 93 and repeat them back to me?” “Can you call over Professor Malfoy for us?”). By the end, Harry has gained little-to-no knowledge about chord progressions - though he does figure out that music has some kind of connection with magic through physics - but he has thoroughly enjoyed himself. It’s quite freeing to be in a classroom environment again without any of the actual responsibilities of being a student. And not to mention the attractive professor who always seems to be looking at him.

When class ends, the students pack up and leave one by one until it’s only Malfoy and Harry left. “Would you mind collecting the books with me?” Malfoy asks.

“You’re not going to force me this time?”

He shoots Harry a pointed look and turns up his nose a little bit. “You always had a choice, and you chose to bother me.”

The two hold a heated gaze for a moment. “Fine,” Harry breaks it and picks up a book, a smile tugging at his lips, “you have a point.”

“I’m glad you agree.” He hesitates before continuing. “And I apologize for being so short with you. I was a little...stressed and shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

Harry startles at the apology. “Er, yeah. No worries. Thanks.”

Once they finish collecting all the books, Malfoy bundles up again and they head out together. “So, what did you think?”

“About what, the class?”

“Yes.”

“It was...interesting.”

“You didn’t understand anything did you.” Malfoy says it more like a statement than a question. He can’t hide his smug grin.

“Yeah…” Harry concedes, but then adds, “But not for lack of trying.”

“Right.”

“It probably would’ve made more sense to me if I had done the reading. I wish I had known about it earlier.”

Malfoy slows down. “Wait,” he begins slowly, “you’re actually interested in it?”

The textbooks in Harry’s arms are beginning to painfully cut into his flesh. “Yes…? Why else did you think-”

“I thought you were just having me on!”

Affronted, Harry cries, “ _No!_ I-! Why would-”

“I don’t know!”

They stand in the hallway for several, long moments. “I’m sorry. Again.” Malfoy’s brows are furrowed, he’s chewing on his lower lip. With what seems like great effort, he continues, “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“It’s oka-”

The textbooks tumble out of Harry’s arms and land directly on their feet.

 

They end up in Malfoy’s mini-apartment on one of the vacant floors of the Astronomy Tower, and Harry tries not to think about the symbolism of the location.

The ceiling is vaulted and high, making the small living space - a living room, kitchen, bed, and bath - seem larger than it is. The living room consists of one long, burgundy couch with a silvery pattern sewn in, a gray rug, and a small coffee table with a dozen or so books stacked on it. Harry plops down on the couch after entering, but not before putting the books away in the bookcase in the corner.

The kitchen isn’t sealed off from the living room, so Harry can see the black counters and a dining table with nothing but a maroon tablecloth with white trim thrown over it. The bathroom door is closed and the bedroom, which Malfoy has entered, seems to be similarly red-themed like the rest of the space - at least from what Harry can see in the small crack between the door and its frame.

Very few of Malfoy’s personal effects seem to exist here. The only sign that the someone is currently inhabiting the space are the stacks of books on the table.

“Sorry, I remembered I had left some readings in there.” Suddenly, Malfoy’s standing in the doorway of his bedroom, a pyramid of scrolls stacked in his arms. “I have to have all of these prepared by tomorrow.”

In an almost nervous, knee-jerk reaction, Harry stands. “Do you want some help?” He blurts out.

A blonde eyebrow lifts and the hint of a smile play on his lips. “Are you sure? Don’t you have something better to be doing with your time?”

 _Right..._ Harry’s technically supposed to be helping Hagrid around the castle, but _he won’t mind if I tell him I was helping out another friend._ “Yeah, of course. And not really. Even if I don’t understand the topic, I could at least organize them or something,” he finishes lamely.

“Be my guest then. Please sort these alphabetically.” Malfoy doesn’t hesitate to push the scrolls into Harry’s arms. He breezes into the kitchen. “Would you like some tea?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Er, yes please.” His earlier surge of nerves gone, Harry once again collapses on the couch. _Get it together!_ He thinks to himself furiously, dumping the scrolls onto the coffee table. What sound like cups clinking, a murmured _Aguamenti,_ and pouring water comes from the kitchen area, but Harry can’t bring himself to look.

He’s only gotten through three of the readings when a shadow suddenly falls across the page. He looks up and is face-to-face with an upside down Draco Malfoy, his blonde hair falling around his face and his sharp eyes looking into Harry’s. “Is that the one I wrote? I put it in there because I thought we’d get to it, but...” He climbs over the back of the couch, sits right next to Harry, and takes the scroll of parchment out of his hands before he can protest.

Looking around, Harry supposes there isn’t any other place for Malfoy to sit, but _does he really have to be so close?_ Their thighs are touching, but the couch can easily seat another two people. When he looks over, Malfoy is immersed in the text and seems wholly unaffected by the same thoughts that insist on dominating Harry’s conscience.

They sit there, read, and organize for an hour or so - Harry’s lost track, too distracted by the mountains of parchment and by Malfoy, who, other than when he got up to bring back the tea, has been sitting right next to Harry the whole time. Occasionally he would change positions: both feet on the floor, cross-legged, reclining against the other end of the couch with his feet nearly in Harry’s lap. In contrast, Harry hasn’t dared to move anything more than his eyes as he scans the readings.

“I think that’s it.” Harry sets the last scroll down next to the neatly stacked pile he and Malfoy have created.

Malfoy yawns - he’s half-horizontal now, his head resting on the arm of the couch - and shifts his feet. “I think so too.” He holds up the last reading and Harry takes the hint and transfers it to the stack too.

“...Good work.” It comes so quietly, so haltingly, that for a moment Harry think he’s misheard. He glances over at Malfoy and he’s lying perfectly still, his eyes closed and his face peaceful.

“You too.”

Malfoy’s eyes open but are still directed at the ceiling. “I mean good job in class today.” The couch groans as Malfoy sits back up - his hair mussed. “Do you actually want to learn about my research?” His voice sounds vulnerable, almost raw.

“I do.” Harry runs his hand through his hair. “We haven’t seen each other in so long. I’m curious about what you’re doing now.”

Malfoy’s face is unreadable. For a moment, Harry panics, thinking he has offended him, but it melts away when Malfoy’s face breaks out into a smile.

He begins explaining the basics, and by the end, Harry thinks he has a pretty good grasp on Malfoy’s work. He first became interested in Arithmancy  in Hogwarts, and after he finished serving his five year sentence in Azkaban, he began making and playing music again and realized that music theory greatly coincides with some aspects of Arithmancy. “In fact,” Malfoy told Harry, his eyes bright, “Most successful musicians all around the world have been witches and wizards!”

It was at that point that Malfoy began to research more deeply into the two topics - all in his free time, of course - which eventually led him to Muggle topics like physics. More specifically, the physics of sound.

“And now I’m researching definitive connections between magic and music.” Malfoy finishes with a little flourish with his hands.

“What have you found so far?” Harry can’t help but ask.

The blonde smiles slyly, as if he’s sharing some inside joke with himself. “A few things. I’m currently following a lead that seems to be very promising.” Harry has to stop himself from flinching at the memories of the all-too familiar cubicle that the words “following a lead” conjure up for him.

The conversation can easily end there, but something in Harry is encouraging him to press further, to find out more. “And once you find something…” He trails off, expecting Malfoy to jump in, but he doesn’t.

In fact, the question seems to completely catch Malfoy off guard. “I-uh. Well-” He splutters.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” Harry holds up his hands. “I was just wondering.”

Malfoy takes a minute to compose himself. It’s late, and through the window Harry can see that a snowstorm as picked up outside. But other than the faint whistling of the wind, this wing of Hogwarts is extraordinarily quiet.

“I’ve...never thought about that before.” Malfoy’s hands are carefully folded in his lap, and he’s staring intently down on them.

“You should consider it, I think. This is something completely new - I think everyone would be really excited for it. You might even get some funding.”

Something’s wrong. Malfoy’s chewing on his lip and fiddling with a ring on his finger - _a signet ring,_ Harry realizes, _probably inherited from his family._ Harry can’t figure out why-

Slowly, Malfoy speaks, “It’s an interesting idea, but I don’t think my work is all that groundbreaking yet. Or interesting, even.” He stands and walks to the window. “It’s late. And it looks bad out there.” With a twirl, he’s facing Harry again. “Where are you staying again?”

Harry can’t think. His brain is foggy, muddled, and he can’t quite comprehend the sequence of events that just occurred - it seems like Malfoy is constantly running circles around him.  So he just mumbles an answer, “Hagrid’s,” and feels like he’s slowly sinking into the couch now that Malfoy isn’t sitting there too, helping him float.

“That’s quite a ways away.”

“...Yeah.”

“You should sleep here.”

“...Yeah?”

“Here.” Suddenly, Harry’s not drowning in the couch, but in a flood of blankets.

“Wh-what?”

“Did you expect to be sleeping in the bed?” Malfoy’s perched at the end of the couch now, smiling mirthfully down at Harry as he struggles to untangle himself from the blankets.

A moment later, Harry understands the insinuation and blushes. “N-no!”

“Good night then.” He slides off the arm of the couch and extinguishes the the flame of the candle on the coffee table. Harry hears him pause somewhere before reaching his room, and he strains to hear what he may be doing, but nothing comes. A moment of baited breath later, the door of Malfoy’s bedroom finally closes with a _click._

Harry stops struggling now and takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He listens for any further movement from within Malfoy’s room, but only hears what seems like the creak of his bed springs as he climbs in and no further noise.

Harry settles on the couch; the blankets are warm and the pillow is soft and when he closes his eyes, he’s completely enveloped in Malfoy’s scent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We! love! emotional! vulnerability!


	6. Chapter 6

“Hurry _up_ Potter,” Malfoy snaps in between labored breaths. They’re both a bit breathless after the two flights of stairs they practically flew down.

“I’m _coming!_ ” Harry’s struggling - Malfoy’s legs are considerably longer than his, after all.

Both of them had woken up late for breakfast. They dash down the halls of the castle, passing the rows of portraits peering curiously at them from their frames. The mid-morning sun shines through the windows and cast long shadows in vaguely Harry and Malfoy-esque shapes on the walls.

Finally, they reach the wide double doors of the Great Hall and stop outside to collect themselves.

Letting out a breathy laugh, Malfoy states, completely monotone, “You look like shit.”

Malfoy is red in the face, his hair sticking out at odd angles. “You too.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“Ready?”

Malfoy takes in a deep breath and puffs out his chest, perhaps in an effort to make himself look less like a man who just sprinted through the halls of a castle to make breakfast. Harry makes no such effort and simply steps forward and opens the door.

As they enter, dozens of eyes swivel to focus on them - but they don’t leave. Whispers erupt, some laughter, some sly looks. Malfoy speeds up his pace, nose turned up, clearly embarrassed to be seen by his adoring students in such a state.

Harry takes a seat at the Head Table next to Hagrid. “Good morning.”

“Where _were_ you last night?” Hagrid asks, his voice magnified and echoing around the hall. “You never came home!”

The whispers increase _exponentially_ in number, in volume, in everything. Harry swears he sees Headmistress McGonagall choke a little on her pumpkin juice.

Oh.

_Oh._

Blood drains from Harry’s face, and a quick glance over to Malfoy sitting at the end of the table confirms that he’s similarly pale. The insinuation has caught them off guard - especially since it’s completely plausible. The line between exercise-induced exhaustion and sexual debauchery is very fine indeed.

But before Harry has any chance to defend himself, someone taps him on the shoulder. When he turns around, before him stands Neville Longbottom.

He’s not much different from the last time Harry saw him - _how many years ago was that? A good few, at least._ Same floppy hair, maybe a little thinned out now, same round eyes, same broad shoulders. The one thing Harry can’t verify to be the same is his smile, mainly because Neville’s _not smiling_ right now.

“What are you doing here?” He whispers.

“I’m…” Harry entertains the idea of lying, but he figures he’s in too much shit as is. “...here to help Hagrid around the castle.”

“Since _when?_ Is this where you’ve been this whole time?!” Neville’s getting agitated now, his voice getting louder. Harry glances nervously around him and hopes no one is eavesdropping.

“Neville. Listen.”

“No.”

“Please, I’m sorry, okay?”

“Harry.” Neville’s face is frightening. It’s unmoving, unreadable, like stone. “You’re an absolute bastard, you know that?” And then he storms out.

Harry rubs his face wearily and deflates into his chair. Neville has every right to be pissed. Hell, if the roles were reversed, Harry might have even slapped Neville. But Neville is Neville. And no matter how angry he gets, his kindness still triumphs.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees Malfoy finish his breakfast and make to leave. Harry quickly scarfs down the scrambled eggs and sausage in front of him, whispers “I’ll explain later” to Hagrid,  and follows close behind.

“Can I sit in on class again today?

To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy doesn’t answer right away. “...Of course.”

“Thanks.”

They walk in silence for another corridor before Malfoy interrupts it. “Please extend my sincerest apologies to Longbottom. And reassure him of the truth.”

“Wh-what?”

“You two are…” He adjusts his scarf and clears his throat. “...together, are you not?”

“ _What?!_ ”

“Potter! Keep it down!” Malfoy snaps at the exact same volume.

Harry’s stuttering now. “W-wait. I don’t understand..?!”

“Just-! Tell him nothing happened last night!” He’s blushing furiously now, avoiding all eye contact.

“Why should I?”

Malfoy throws his hands up in frustration. “He was angry! It’s the right thing to do?! I don’t know! If you don’t want to fix your relationship, then nevermind! Forget I asked.” He speeds up.

“Wait.” With one arm, Harry stops Malfoy in his tracks. The latter twists around, his face cold. A wave of realization hits Harry and he emerges from its froth with his head suddenly clear. “You think Neville and I are dating?”

“Are you not?”

“No!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We’re just friends!” Harry winces and adds, “Maybe even less.”

Malfoy is silent. He just stands there for several moments, mouth slightly open, before turning back around and continuing to walk.

“Malfoy?”

“...I apologize.” He says stiffly, his eyes trained on what lies ahead. “It seems that I’ve misunderstood the situation.”

Harry half-laughs with relief. “That’s an understatement. Don’t worry, okay? He wasn’t mad at me about that.”

Harry braces himself for the obvious follow up question, but it doesn’t come. In fact, Malfoy doesn’t seem to react at all - the look on his face, at least from the side, is faraway, distracted.

They stop by Malfoy’s place to pick up the textbooks - Harry’s carrying the heaviest ones again - and head straight to class.

“Good morning everyone,” he greets the class when they step back in the room. He’s got his teacher voice on: kind, yet no-nonsense. “Today we’re continuing your projects, so please come up and pick up the books you used yesterday.” The students follows his directions and soon the sounds of focused research and conversation fill the classroom once again. Harry takes a seat next to Sophia and Lucas, as he did yesterday.

“Hi again.” “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Are you going to be here for the rest of the week?” Sophia asks while opening up the physics textbook.

Harry’s initial plan was to remain until Christmas Eve - Friday - all along, so “Yeah. Until the end of this week.”

“Then you’re back to work?”

“Er.” Though he’s groaning internally at the prospect of his vacation ending, Harry forces a smile. “Yep.”

Lucas, who’s been silent throughout this exchange, suddenly speaks with a light in his eyes. “You’re an Auror, right?”

“Yeah.” _Nope. Not technically, anyway._

He leans forward with interest. “Is it fun? What do you do? How long have you worked there?”

Harry deflects his barrage of questions a little. “Are you interested in becoming an Auror?”

Sophia grins. “Much more that just _interested._ ” Lucas rolls his eyes and doesn’t rise to the bait.

“Yes. I’ve wanted to be an Auror since I was little.”

Harry isn’t sure how he should tell him the truth of being an Auror. He isn’t even sure if he _should_ in the first place. Lucas may be mature - at least from what Harry’s seen - but he’s no less naive about the world than Harry was at his age, or anyone else for that matter.

Aurors are a nice concept, but new recruits quickly find that the work is less than desirable. Chasing “bad guys” and enacting justice are certainly part of the job description, but so are long nights away from home, without food, sleep, friends, mounds of paperwork, and not to mention the grueling training that 90% of all trainees fail or drop out of.

But what Harry found most unbearable was the sheer hypocrisy and outright _racism_ of everyone in the department. Aurors preach against hate, against discrimination, but a few of Harry’s coworkers still pull the corner of their eyes back when Kingsley’s not looking at staff meetings and Harry _swears_ he’s heard a few slurs tossed around at office parties. Racial profiling is rampant in the department, too - which is why tracking down and persecuting the _white_ neo-Death Eaters has been an excruciatingly slow process - and once in holding, suspects, especially non-white ones, face outright torture like Unforgivables - all of which is hidden from the top brass, of course.

And all of this is not to mention the nature of the department. Police are police, no matter if they’re wielding a wand or a baton or a gun. The Auror department’s job is to protect the rich, ruling wizards and witches more than it is to actually serve the marginalized, and no amount of “fun” community initiatives or open office parties will change that.

Working there is hard. Ron commiserates with Harry and is a good ally - regularly calling his fellow Aurors out on their bullshit - but actually changing minds in the department seems like a hopeless prospect. Fixing the system from the inside is - and always has been - utter bullshit.

It doesn’t help that Harry is one of only two people of color working there - the other being Kingsley, but the literal Minister of Magic has his own responsibilities to take care of and can’t micromanage the actions of individual Aurors.

Looking at Lucas, a young, black, talented kid, Harry feels a tightness in his chest. If he becomes an Auror - which is already assuming he’ll be able to brave the training and initiation process - he’ll no doubt wither away like Harry has. The one difference would be that Harry is privileged enough to, even after all his failures and mental breakdowns on the clock, still be offered a cushy Auror-in-name-only job. Hell, Harry could survive for the rest of his life just by living on his parents’ money and the free shit offered to him in exchange for endorsements and public appearances. Harry hazards a guess that Lucas doesn’t have the same opportunities.

“I have to warn you,” Harry begins slowly, “that the training is extremely difficult.”

“I understand,” he replies instantaneously.

A slight note of desperation enters Harry’s voice. “You have prepare fo- no. _Expect_ failure.”

Lucas straightens up a little more. “Yes. I do.”

Sophia laughs nervously, looking between Harry and her friend. “Sh-shouldn’t we get started on the project? At this rate, we won’t finish.”

Blinking slowly, Lucas says, “...Yes. You’re right. Sorry.” They resume their task of combing through the books, half-teaching themselves Muggle physics and half-researching proof for the theories they began to formulate about music and magic at the end of yesterday’s class.

Harry lets out a small breath of relief.

 

“Potter.”

It’s long after class has ended, and Harry and Malfoy have been sitting in silence for the past hour, silently grading the homework assignments the students had turned in. Despite the violent storm last night, the day so far has proved to be surprisingly nice - through the window Harry hears the jubilant cheers of students as they romp and play in the snow.

Not looking up from the homework Harry’s grading, he asks, “Are you done?”

“Yes, but that’s not what I wanted to say.”

“Hm?”

“You and Longbottom…”

Harry looks up, exasperated, “Like I said, we’re-”

“I know!” Malfoy stares at a knot in the wooden floor by Harry’s feet instead of actually making eye contact. “I was just...curious - about what he said to you at breakfast. You don’t have to share if you don’t want to, but,” he meets Harry’s eyes and puffs out his chest a little, “I think personal conflicts among faculty are ultimately a detriment to harmonious learning environments.”

Harry has to suppress a laugh at Malfoy’s attempt to hide his inner gossip. “It’s really nothing.”

Malfoy gives Harry a disapproving stare, clearly not convinced. “He sounded extremely upset.”

“I just haven’t been in contact with him in a while, that’s really it.”

“What do you mean, you ‘haven’t been in contact with him’? You two are friends.”

Harry feels a prickle of frustration. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh? How would you know?”

“It’s complicated!” Harry’s voice comes out defensive.

“Are you questioning my ability to understand complex interpersonal relationships?”

“Just drop it! _Please._ ”

The classroom is silent. Even the students outside have moved farther away, making their voices no longer audible. Harry can’t bear to look at Malfoy right now, but he doesn’t hear him move or react in any way.

But suddenly, Malfoy stands up and moves across the classroom to look out the window. Harry watches his back warily.

“Do you still remember how to ice skate?” Malfoy asks without turning around. Harry looks out the window and realizes he’s looking at the Great Lake on the horizon.

“Y-e-s?”

“Perfect.” He announces before marching back to his desk and gathering up his belongings. “You’ll have to help me, then.”

“W-wh-”

“Shh.”

Just one simple noise, one finger to his lips, and Harry obeys without question. Harry doesn’t know if he can bring himself to say anything even if he wanted to.

“Follow me.”

After donning his robes and scarf and stashing the books under his desk for class the next day, Malfoy links arms with Harry and promptly half-drags him out of the castle, through the snow, and to the Lake.

It’s completely frozen over - ice maybe six or seven feet thick - and the afternoon sunlight glints off of it. Footprints and imprints of faces and bodies in the snow indicate that Malfoy wasn’t the first to have the same idea, but there doesn't seem to be any students around right now.

“Y-you first.” Malfoy gives Harry a little push from behind, suddenly acting nervous.

Shaking his head in amusement, Harry obliges and places a foot on the ice - charmed to be able to skate effectively, of course.

“W-Wait!” Malfoy flounders behind him and hugs Harry tight at the waist. “Okay. Now I’m ready.”

Harry places his other foot on the ice, which elicits a squeal from Malfoy. His hands feel pleasantly warm on Harry’s stomach. “I’m on the ice now.”

His voice comes out several octaves higher and more strained than Harry’s ever heard it. “I know that!”

“Are you coming?”

“Yes!”

Malfoy doesn’t budge and instead continues to breath heavily directly into Harry’s ear - he can even feel his fluttering heartbeat where he’s pressing his chest to Harry’s back.

“Malfoy…?”

His response is only a groan this time, but, miraculously, one of his legs lifts and lands on the ice.

“Good job! Now the other one-?” Before Harry even finishes his question, Malfoy’s completely on the ice.

“You did great!”

Malfoy relinquishes his hold on Harry’s stomach, and he immediately misses the warmth. Now that he’s on the ice - which seems to be Malfoy’s greatest challenge - Malfoy has little problem skating on his own. He only seems rusty at the most. “Thanks.” Is it Harry’s overactive imagination, or do Malfoy’s cheeks look too red to be attributed to just the cold?

“How long has it been since you’ve skated?”

“Oh. A few years.” Malfoy begins to skate counterclockwise around the perimeter of the Lake and Harry skates so that they’re stay side-by-side as they make conversation. “I think the last time was when I took my mother out skating at the pond near her house.”

“The Manor?”

Cracking a wry smile, Malfoy answers, “No. Don’t you keep up with the celebrity gossip, Potter?”

“ _That_ bullshit?” Harry barks out a laugh. “I haven’t read a single paper like that since the war.”

“You’re not missing much.”

“Definitely not. Hermione still reads some from time to time, just to keep up with what’s being said, but she tells me all the time how garbage it still is.”

“Well if you were keeping up, you would’ve caught that we’ve lost the Manor. My mother’s living in a quaint little cottage in the English countryside, now.” He pauses before changing the subject, “I remember the press was in an uproar around that time about you, now that I think about it.” Harry quirks an eyebrow at him and Draco hastily adds. “More so than the usual - ‘Harry Potter spotted having a spot of tea at half past three instead of three, his usual time!”

This makes Harry laugh, but he quickly sobers up when he realizes what Malfoy’s alluding to. “I know what you’re talking about.”

They skate silently for a few seconds before Malfoy speaks again. “Do you feel comfortable sharing?”

Harry feels as though Malfoy isn’t going to sell him out anytime soon, surprisingly. The Harry Potter from ten years ago could never have imagined this. “I don’t mind, particularly, no.”

“Was any of it true?”

“Some. Most were wrong. I didn’t cheat on Ginny, for example.”

“An-”

“And she didn’t cheat on me either.” Harry adds, finishing Malfoy’s next thought.

“Then...why?”

Snow has begun to fall slowly - just a few snowflakes here and there. Both men slow down to enjoy the view.

When Harry speaks again, the words come slowly, “We separated on good terms. She and I both realized certain things about ourselves and decided that we were better off as friends.”

“I see.”

A beat.

“We’re gay. I mean I’m gay. Technically bisexual. Fuck. I shouldn’t have outed her-” Harry’s mouth snaps shut when he sees the expression on Draco Malfoy’s face.

His eyes are blown wide, wide enough that Harry can see his own face reflected in its gray. Draco’s mouth hangs a little bit open, his cheeks, ears, neck - all red.

Less like a confession and more like a joyous proclamation, it falls from his lips, “Me too.”

“Oh fu-really?!” Almost as if the sheer force of Harry’s words has thrown himself off balance, Harry accidently skates too fast in the wrong direction and collides into Malfoy, who manages to catch him without falling himself.

Clutching at each other and trying not to collapse in a heap of limbs onto the ice, the two men struggle and curse, trying to find their balance again but not daring to let go.

“W-wait!”

“Don’t,” Harry gasps, “move.”

“I’m trying, you-”

“Fu-watch it!”

“Your le-”

In the struggle, Harry’s foot somehow finds itself hooked around the back of Malfoy’s foot, which promptly makes his leg give out under them and sends the pair sprawling onto the ice Malfoy-first.

“Malfoy!”

The blonde man simply groans underneath Harry and doesn’t open his eyes. Frantic, Harry feels around the back of Malfoy’s head for any blood or other signs that his skull might have just smashed into the ice, but finds nothing. His hair is, indeed, as soft as it looks.

“Malfoy! Wake up!”

Gray eyes flutter open.

“Are you okay?”

“You’re loud. And heavy.”

It’s only at this point that Harry realizes that he’s practically straddling Malfoy. Harry scrambles to his feet with some effort, and offers a hand. “Sorry.”

“I didn’t expect for you to get so excited.”

The double entendre seems unintentional, but it’s not lost on Harry. “Sorry-! I was just...surprised is all.”

“Me too. Though I did have my suspicions.”

“Really? What gave it away?”

“Cedric Diggory ring a bell?”

Harry feels a blush spread from his neck to his ears. “Was I really _that_ obvious?”

“No,” Malfoy admits, “But I wasn’t straight either,  so I could tell.” He’s still lying on the ice, completely ignoring Harry’s extended hand. “Lie down with me.”

“Why? It’s cold!”

“Astute observation. Now come.” He pats the ice under Harry’s feet, next to his body.

“....Fine.” Since when has Harry ever been able to resist Draco Malfoy?

 

 

“See? It’s nice, isn’t it?” Malfoy’s breath comes from him in puffs of steam. When Harry looks over, he can see each individual snowflake that has gathered on Malfoy’s eyelashes.

“Yeah,” he breathes.

Malfoy turns his head to look at Harry. He looks amused, though Harry’s isn’t sure what’s so funny. “The snow is so obvious on you.”

“Not everyone can have blonde hair,” Harry grumbles while self-consciously running his hand through his hair in an effort to rid himself of the snowflakes he’s sure have congregated there.

“No,” Malfoy’s hand catches Harry’s, “You misunderstand. It looks good.”

“Oh.”

Neither one moves to pull their hand away. Neither one breaks eye contact. Neither one breathes.

 _Thunk_. The ice they’re laying on vibrates.

Alarmed, Harry sits up and whips his head around, figuring it was the work of some rogue student out to sabotage them.

“Potter. Look down.”

He does, and sees a massive, dark shape moving underneath the layers upon layers of ice. It’s…

“The Giant Squid.”

 _Thunk._ It taps on the other side of the ice again, but not in any sort of agitated way. In fact, Harry gets the sense that it’s greeting them.

“I wonder if it ever gets lonely down there in the winter,” Malfoy muses as he peers down into the depths of the Lake. The dark shape dives out of sight.

“Maybe. I don’t think I would.”

“You wouldn’t get lonely if you were trapped under a sheet of ice for several months out of the year?”

“Yeah, I guess. It seems…freeing.”

Malfoy gives Harry a strange look before saying, “I don’t think I could take it.” He carefully climbs to his feet and offers a hand to Harry. “Let’s skate some more before it gets dark.”

Harry takes the hand. “Sure.”

The Lake is quiet. No birds, who have wisely decided to travel South, and no students - not even any wind. The only movement is the falling snow and the sun moving across the sky. Oh, and of course, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter skating across the ice.

At times, they skate in silence, each lost in their own thoughts or admiring the view. Other times, they chat animatedly, leaning into each other and smiling like old friends. Like the War never happened. Like Malfoy and Harry actually became friends after meeting at Madame Malkin’s for the first time all those years ago.

Malfoy laughs often, making the corners of his eyes crinkle up. And when he looks over at Harry without any masks, without any guards, Harry looks back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not 2 be banned from ao3 or anything but.... ACAB, fuck c*ps, and abolish I** No I will not be taking any bad faith arguments. Google is free.


	7. Chapter 7

The next day and a half pass quickly and Harry and Malfoy fall into a sort of routine. They sit at breakfast together, go to class together, and hang out in Malfoy’s living quarters at night - grading assignments, shooting the shit, talking until late. It’s nice, Harry thinks. He wonders if this is how it could have been all this time - even before the War.

Friday afternoon, after the students’ presentations of their final papers - Sophia and Lucas doing especially well, at least in Harry’s opinion - Harry and Malfoy agree to a class snowball fight as a celebration of the course’s success. Also because the students asked so politely, clearly eager to spend as much time as possible with Malfoy before he leaves.

As they’re trudging through the snow-covered grounds, heading towards a suitable location, Lucas approaches Harry.

“Mr. Potter,” he greets him.

“Hey, Lucas - and please, Harry is fine. Great job by the way. I learned a lot working with you and Sophia, even though I probably wasn’t much help.” Harry laughs.

“Oh no, you were plenty help! And thank you.” He hesitates. “Mr. Harry...the other day...I seem to have upset you. When we were talking about the Auror department. I apologize for that.” He bows his slightly, his eyes downcast.

Harry’s heart plummets. “Oh-no-please, please don’t apologize. Lucas, you did nothing wrong, I promise. It’s my fault for getting so worked up.”

“But-”

“It’s okay. Really. I should be the one saying sorry.”

Lucas’ eyebrows are still furrowed, but he doesn’t argue anymore.

“So, what made you want to be an Auror?”

He brightens up considerably at this. “I’ve always looked up to them. And my father was one. He’s retired now, and he wants me to do it too.”

Harry nods.

“But…” A note of doubt enters his voice. “I’ve been rethinking that recently. The whole Auror thing. Especially with all the rumors about neo-Death Eaters...”

Grimacing, Harry replies, “I don’t blame you.”

“It just doesn’t seem like Aurors actually care about the people who are getting hurt.”

“I’m sorry, Lucas.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not your fault. It’s all of ours.”

They walk in silence for a little bit. Up ahead, the rest of the class are chatting animatedly with Malfoy. Sophia is with them, but every now and then she’ll glance back at Lucas and Harry.

“Have you ever had doubts?” Lucas breaks the silence.

The reply comes easily: “Of course. Always.”

A sigh of relief. “That makes me feel better.”

“We’re here!” Someone from the front group calls out.

The snow is freshly fallen here, unbroken and thick. Little vegetation. Far from anything that could be broken. In other words, the perfect snowball fight battleground.

Without Harry noticing, the students seemed to have already separated out into teams. “Be on my team?” Sophia asks Harry sweetly.

“Sure. And Malfoy…?”

“With Lucas.”

“Excellent.” Harry surveys the players. “Five on five?”

“Yep,” Sophia chirps. “Now let’s go strategize.”

After brief introductions with the rest of his team - Robin, Stella, and Gordon - they all get down to business.

“Fort first.” Gordon, the bulky young man with a Ravenclaw scarf announces first. “Defense is key.”

The girl with her hair in cornrows - Stella - nods. “Okay, you can head that. I’m no good at that without magic anyways. I’ll lead offense.”

“Wait, wait.” Harry stops them all. “What are the rules?”

Stella answers him. “The rules are: no wands, no cheating, and no contact with anything other than snow. At the start of the game we’ll all pile up our wands in our territory and the other team will do the same with theirs in their territory. The objective is to steal all the wands from the other team.”

 _Aren’t wands a bit of a dangerous wager?_ Harry thinks, but doesn’t voice. _Kids these days are brave._ “Okay, got it.”

They go back to discussing strategy in hushed whispers and Harry takes the opportunity to glance over at the other team - and most importantly, Malfoy.

He stands tall among the students and talks to them with a tone of confidence that Harry can hear even from far away, though he can't catch the individual words.  Harry supposes that Malfoy has always been a natural leader; his gang of Slytherins only ever listened to him back in the day, an accomplishment that none of the professors or even Dumbledore could claim.

"Mr. Potter." Stella calls out to him.

Harry's attention snaps back to his group. "Huh?"

"Do you want to be defense or offense?"

When Harry looks at Sophia, she grins and announces proudly, "I'm offense with Stella. Gordon and Robin are taking defense and building our fort."

Gordon and the extremely freckled boy named Robin nod and resume discussing something quietly among themselves - fort-building tactics, Harry assumes.

"I'll take offense." Harry's never been much of a defense guy. Even in Auror training, which required him to be comfortable with both, he got away with mostly "playing offense": going on raids, stakeouts, duels, etc. It annoyed Ron to no end, as he hated defense too, but was always caught sneaking to the other side. Harry supposes it's cruel irony that he sits in a cubicle day-in and day-out now, unable to play either.

Stella gives a wide, toothy grin. "Fantastic. We're gonna wreck 'em."

Gordon stops speaking with Robin and turns to the group. "Time's up." Harry notices that he has a Muggle watch strapped to his wrist. Things have definitely changed from when he was in school.

"Time's up!" Stella calls to the other team. Malfoy signals for his team members to stop talking and walks over.

"Who's the team captain?" He asks once he's within earshot.

"I am."

Malfoy nods and extends a hand to her. "Pleasure playing with you, Stella."

Puffing out her chest, she takes his hand and shakes it heartily. The rest of his team has gather around him now, and Harry's team has done the same. The line they've stopped at seems to be the halfway mark between where their wands now lie in two heaps at the two ends.

"Play on three?"

"Bring it."

"1." The two teams form a chorus.

"2."

"3."

Stella and Sophia immediately dash not forward, but sideways in opposite directions. From the corner of his eye, Harry spots Gordon and Robin disappearing behind him to begin the fort.

The opposite team seems to have a similar plan in mind: Malfoy seems to be on defense, and with him are two students following his building instructions. Their two offensive players dash exactly as Stella and Sophia did, so now each pair is facing off. Lucas is one of them, but he’s facing off against Stella and not Sophia - but Harry feels like a Sophia-Lucas battle would be much more interesting to see.

Malfoy catches Harry's eye and smirks - and it's the kind of egotistical,  self-righteous, and petty smirk that he used to give him all the time in Hogwarts. It's a throwback, but not really a sight for sore eyes. _Oh, it’s on._

Luckily, with the opposing team's offense completely tied up with Sophia and Stella, Harry has a clear path to the wands. He charges forward, but swerves right to avoid a snowball from Malfoy. There's a glint in his gray eyes as he prepares to throw the second one.

Harry doesn't try to dodge it this time - only turning around to let the snow hit his back. Luckily, he doesn't feel much through his coat other than a soft thud of impact, but he suspects it'll be a different story once they accumulate and soak through. He has to be careful and win this game quickly.

He bends down quickly to gather up some snow and continues running while packing them into suitable projectiles. A few more snowballs whizz by him - thrown by Malfoy and not the two students working on the fort.

"Stop the fort!" Stella yells from across the playing field. She ducks to avoid a snowball to the face and sends one right back at her opponent in retaliation. It lands perfectly.

Harry would like to comply with her order, but Malfoy's giving him a look that indicates that he may have some serious trouble doing so. The blonde sends a snowball Harry's way, and it splatters at his feet, gets on his sock, and proceeds to rapidly melt. Wincing but undeterred, Harry throws the two snowballs he's made not at Malfoy, but at one of the fort-builders. The poor student yells an expletive as the snow seems to fall down his shirt and touch his bare back, but continues building.

However, before he has a chance to completely recover, another three snowballs fly one after the other in a perfect arc and hit his head, neck, and plumber's crack respectively. He hits the ground and squirms around in a desperate attempt to prevent the snow from intruding too deep into his pants. Harry whips around and sees Sophia standing there, casually tossing the fourth snowball up into the air and catching it with one hand. Behind her he sees the other team's offensive member she was facing off with; she's face down in the snow with her long, black hair spread out around her - unmoving.

"Bloody hell." Harry mutters.

Sophia coils up - which vaguely reminds Harry of baseball, the muggle sport that he vaguely remembers is a favorite of Americans - and her arm lashes out almost like a whip, sending the snowball in a painful trajectory right into the head of the fort-builder who's already endured so much at her hands already.

Upon impact, the snow explodes - sending bits of it all over his fellow fort-builder's face - sending him toppling over to join his compatriot on the icy ground.

"Go!" Sophia yells as she scoops up an armful of more snow and begins sprinting toward the opposing team’s half-finished fort, giving Malfoy a wide berth.

Harry starts running too, but makes it a point to head straight for the smirking, blonde git. "I'll cover you!" He yells to his teammate.

WHAM! A snowball directly hits Harry's face, covering his glasses and dripping down to his lips. Harry reaches up to wipe his glasses clean, but endures another hit to the face and a third to his left shoulder.

"Fuck-!"

"You think you can outsmart me, Potter?"

"Malfoy--!" With one, rage-fueled-motion, Harry uses his entire arm to wipe his glasses clean and uses his other arm to launch his snowballs.

One hits Malfoy's midsection, causing him to recoil a little bit, the second hits his leg, and the third actually reaches Harry's goal and hits the blonde git squarely in the face.

Harry scoops up some more snow and uses his chance to run forward, past Malfoy, and exercise a pincer attack with Sophia on the opposing team’s fort.

"Oh no you don't!" A snowball flies by Harry, and for a moment he's distracted by the sheer amount of force put behind the throw. Malfoy's getting down to business. A second one clips Harry's ear, and he takes it as a hint to begin running in a zig-zag pattern.

Sophia reaches the fort first and faces off against the one fort builder who managed to get back on his feet. He turns around and in his hands are dozens of snowballs that he starts throwing one by one in a wild barrage of exploding snow. Since his back is turned to Harry and his attention is focused on Sophia, Harry tries to use this chance to sneak up and grab the wands from behind their fort - the unfinished section, but a particularly hard snowball explodes against the back of his knees and Harry goes down.

"Haha!" Malfoy shouts in triumph as he runs past him to man the fort. He sends another two snowballs at Harry while he's down, and they hit his gloved hand and his back.

Sophia shouts with what seems to be a mouthful of snow, "Retreat for now and regroup!"

But suddenly, a desperate scream comes all the way from the other side of the playing field - from their fort, Harry quickly realizes with horror. "Don't retreat! Don't retreat! Wands taken!"

Harry whips his head around to look and sure enough, the one remaining offensive member of the other team - Lucas - has gathered up their bundle of wands and is sprinting for his life back across the field. Their fort has collapsed in on itself, and under its crumbled structure lie both what looks to be Gordon and Robin. Stella is also covered in snow, but she's not out yet - trying to scramble to her feet while making snowballs at the same time.

Without hesitation, without any orders, Harry picks up the snowballs that tumbled to the ground when he fell, throws them all at Malfoy with ferocious force, and barrels forward without any thought to his own well-being.

Malfoy gets several facefuls of snow and drops to his knees while he tries to spit it all out. Harry runs up to him. Kicks down the fort. Grabs the wands. And runs.

The defensive fort member can't even react. A snowball hits him between the eyes - courtesy of Sophia - and he goes down too.

Stella's screaming something, but Harry can't hear. As he runs past the midpoint line of the field, he also runs past Lucas, who makes eye contact with Harry before charging on, desperate to be the first to deliver the wands to his team.

Adrenaline makes Harry's heart pump, makes his legs work faster and faster. He's moving so fast his breaths come up in a puff of steam and quickly blow past him. The air is cutting. The voices around him are loud. He doesn't dare look behind to see how far Lucas has gotten. He doesn't dare peel his eyes off of the sight in front of him: their collapsed fort, Gordon and Robin cheering him on, and the empty spot where their wands used to be.

He falls.

Correction: he dives and skids on the snow the last five feet.

Gordon and Robin catch Harry and hold him as he lays there, catching his breath.

They're cheering.

They're cheering!

They're cheering?

Suddenly, Stella jumps onto all of them, knocking the wind right back out of Harry.

They're all laughing and smiling. Sophia joins the pile-on moments later and they scream and yell together.

When he cranes his head to look across the field, he sees the one with all of their wands, the student that Harry thought was going to beat him: Lucas. He's laying perfectly still, face up in the snow, staring at the sky. Malfoy jogs over and gives him a hand and the two and the rest of their team huddle around and smile and talk.

"Good game!" Stella shouts over to them, extracting herself from the pile of bodies.

Malfoy meets her in the middle and they shake hands. "Good game," he repeats to her with a warm smile on his face.

The two teams meet in the middle, like in the beginning, and congratulate each other - no feelings lost at all. Malfoy pats Harry on the back and says, "Nicely played. It seems you've stayed in shape."

That couldn't be farther from the truth; Harry's still almost breathing too heavily to be able to speak, and he can already tell where his muscles will be aching tomorrow.

"Same to you. It was almost like-"

"Quidditch again." The blonde finishes the thought for him.

"You two went to school together?!" Sophia gapes at them. The look on her face suggests that she has finally connected all the dots.

"Y-e-s?"

"How didn't you know that, Sophia?" Stella asks, shocked.

Lucas adds, though not unkindly, "Yeah, it's in our Modern History of Magic textbook."

"I forgot, okay?!"

Harry laughs. "Hot chocolate, anyone?" The cold is really starting to seep through his clothes, and any kind of hot beverage sounds extremely attractive right now.

While redistributing the wands, Stella concurs with Harry. "That sounds great!"

The rest of the group nod in assent and they begin the trek back to the castle. While doing so, Malfoy falls to the back of the group to join Harry.

"Good game."

"Good game." Harry smiles wide. "You had fun, right?"

“Yes, I did. Though it was not in my lesson plan for today.”

“A bit of spontaneity is good,” Harry says, hypocrite that he is, knowing full well that his own weekly and daily routines haven’t changed in nearly a decade.

Malfoy sniffs and sticks his nose up. "Ever since you came back into my life - what - a week ago? I have never known monotony."  
"You love it."  
The blonde closes his eyes and holds up a hand to his temples like he's about to faint and proclaims dramatically, "I have not known peace."   
"You lo-o-o-ve it."  
He drops his hand and gives Harry a glare, but ultimately fails to hide his smile. "You’re insufferable."  
“Something we have in common, then."  
Unable to come up with a good response, Malfoy opts to just lightly punch Harry on the shoulder instead.   
In the end, Malfoy leads his students to his living quarters for hot chocolate. They ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ at his place, even though it's fairly plain and modest. For some reason, seeing eight teenagers piled on the couch Harry had crashed on earlier in the week is a strange sight.  
"It's ready!" Malfoy calls from the kitchen. "Potter, come help me take the mugs."  
Though Harry groans in protest, he still picks himself off the floor - an action that he doesn't remember being quite so difficult when he was young - and obeys. With the two men levitating five mugs each, they make it in one trip.  
Suddenly, as Harry's settling down on the floor again with his drink, he spots the stack of textbooks they used for class on the table and realizes something. "Malfoy."  
A long sip later, he finally responds, "Hm?"  
"Why did we carry the books by hand all those times when we have _magic_?"  
The students stifle laughter and stare at Malfoy, awaiting his answer.  
"Potter," Malfoy chides, "sometimes it's refreshing to ease off our reliance on magic, isn't it? Sans-magic tasks humbles us."  
"You just wanted to watch me suffer."  
Another long sip. "That was only a bonus."  
The students burst into laughter, unable to keep it in anymore. Harry rolls his eyes and catches Malfoy give him a cheeky wink when the student's aren't watching.  
The rest of the afternoon passes with similar conversations - sometimes technical as the students interrogate Malfoy on his research, sometimes meaningless and playful banter. The only awkward moment was when Stella asked Malfoy, "Do you have someone special in your life right now?" To which Malfoy answered, albeit after a coughing fit and an obvious blush, "No-! Not that it's any of your business as my students."  
It's peaceful. Almost domestic.

Around dinnertime, the students file out, stomachs rumbling, leaving just Harry and Malfoy alone in the living room together.

“Er-I guess I’d better-” Harry makes for the door, but Malfoy grabs his wrist.

“Wait.”

Harry stops, looking down at Malfoy sitting on the couch.

“Do you-” Malfoy hesitates for a moment. “Do you have any plans for Christmas?”

“I’m going to the Burrow. Why?”

“Oh.” His shoulders slump a little. “Nothing I was just...wondering.”

“What are your plans?”

“Nothing.” He adds, “I have the annual Christmas concert on Christmas day but that’s about it.”

“At the jazz club? What about the orphanage?”

“They go to my Mother’s place for Christmas. I might pop in but it’s a bit of a squeeze.”

“Oh.” Harry never knew Narcissa to be particularly altruistic. But then again, he’d thought that about Malfoy too.

Malfoy nods and stands. “Well, anyways, it was nice. This past week, I mean.”

“Er-yeah. Same for me.”

The two men walk to the door and Malfoy sees him out. The last thing Harry sees before the door swings shut is Malfoy’s face: tired and full of shadows.

Harry’s halfway down the hall, having passed a few empty portrait frames, when he turns on his heel, storms back the way he came, and raps on Malfoy’s door. It opens pretty much instantaneously, as if Malfoy was still standing in front of it.

“Potter.”

“Malfoy. Listen. How do you feel about coming to the Burrow with me?”

“I-what?” Whatever Malfoy had been expecting him to say, this clearly wasn’t it.

“F-for Christmas. I didn’t mean just in general, though I’m sure that’d be okay-”

Mercifully, Malfoy cuts off Harry’s rambling: “Did….did you just ask me out, Potter?”

“Er….yes?”

Malfoy’s blushing. He’s turning increasingly redder by the second and his voice rises an octave higher: “Well I….certainly don’t think that’s a _bad_ idea, necessarily, But um.” He pauses. “Isn’t it strange for the….the f-first date to be a family Christmas?”

He’s right, but Harry’s already in too deep; he has no choice but to push on. “Don’t worry! They’ll love you!” Malfoy raises an eyebrow at that, but strangely, Harry finds himself believing his words. “I promise! It’ll be fun.”

“I-” For a gripping, terrifying moment, Harry thinks he’s going to be turned down, but Malfoy continues to surprise him at every turn. “-okay.”

“Great! I’ll-uh-pick you up at four tomorrow?”

“That’s fine.”

 _Merlin, I hope I don’t fuck this up._ “Sounds good, I’ll see you then.” He pauses, awkward. “Goodnight.”

“...Goodnight.”

This time, when Malfoy closes the door, he’s waving Harry goodbye with a stiff smile and blush on his face.

 

When sleep finally finds him that night, a strange dream comes with it.

 

He’s sitting in a cushy armchair in front of the fire with a spotted cat on his lap. The clock on the mantle ticks away the seconds and the flames crackle and snap. Distantly, Harry hears the rumble of thunder, but no rain.

When Harry turns his head, Malfoy’s sitting on the couch beside him with glasses on and not much else. “Harry.” He’s holding a bundle of fabric - his clothes.

“Catch.” In an arc of brilliant blues and greens and reds, the clothes soar through the air and land in an impossibly neat pile on Harry’s lap. The cat has vanished.

“I can’t take these,” Harry finds himself protesting.

“Take it.”

“I can’t.”

“I want you to have them.”

Suddenly, Harry realizes that he’s dreaming and it’s like he’s emerging, gasping, from a pool of vague dream-consciousness.

“I’m dreaming right now.” He tests out his control.

Malfoy doesn’t respond, just continues to sit on the couch, still completely naked. Harry throws the clothes back to him. “Put those on.”

“Why?”

 _I’m dreaming. None of this is real._ Harry reminds himself. “You’re distracting me.”

“That’s the point,” Malfoy says in response, but the clothes reappear on his body anyways.

“Draco.”

“Harry.” Malfoy takes a deep breath in, as if preparing to say something important, but he doesn’t have a chance to before it all goes to shit. Rain begins smacking into the roof in big, fat droplets. They bleed through the ceiling, through the walls, through everything.

Harry feels his consciousness losing grip of the situation; it slips faster and faster until the scene in the room with Malfoy spins out of control and shatters completely with a bright flash of light.

 

_It’s morning._

  


_Draco._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this fun little chapter as much as I did writing it! Next chapter is going to be a long one, so get ready for that!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a Hefty one folks! Hope you enjoy Weasley family Christmas shenanigans!!

The first thing Harry does when he wakes is send a Patronus to the Burrow, and to all the other people he knows will be attending tonight - Hermione, Ron, and Ginny. Hagrid wakes up just as the last silvery stag is bounding out the hut, and he asks while rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “What was that for?”

“Nothing,” Harry responds as he watches the snow fall gently from the window. It’s looking to be a very white Christmas this year, as the snow from the storms the past week haven’t even gotten close to clearing up yet.

Since it’s Christmas Eve and the house-elves are preparing a big, fancy dinner tonight, touch-ups of the decorations is high on the priority list today. After a quick trip to Hogsmeade to run errands, Harry’s finally doing what he came here for in the first place. Hagrid teases him before they split up once they get to the castle, “Finally got yeh back from Malfoy.” He chuckles at his own joke and pounds Harry’s back - which almost sends him flying - and walks off and down the hallway.

The castle is mostly quiet - ghosts floating from one room to the next, some, like Nearly Headless Nick, are even wearing holiday gear like ghostly tinsel. Harry has no idea where the students are, but his thoughts don’t linger on them for too long. In fact, his thoughts can’t linger on anything for too long. Time and time again, they keep returning to the obvious, to the memory of him and his big mouth last night, to Malfoy, and to their _date._ It seemed like a good idea at the time - finally, literally since Harry and Ginny split, he wouldn't be going to a Burrow Christmas alone.

But now that it's the next day, the prospect of facing the entire Weasley family plus their spouses and children during Christmas is daunting, even for Harry, who's known them for most of his life. He can't even imagine what Malfoy must be feeling right now.

 _Hopefully everything will work out_ , Harry thinks as he straightens some mistletoe hanging in the arched hallway entrance. He's spent nearly the entire day in this portion of the castle now, and the sun is setting, turning the hallway orange.

Hopefully, no one will say anything. He knows that Malfoy won't do anything to offend the family - even he if he doesn't like them, Malfoy, from what Harry's seen, would remain dignified. He's really just worried that this experience will sour his and Malfoy's relationship - not that they’re anything more than friends or even friendly acquaintances in the first place-

WHAM!

Harry goes down in a pile of limbs - not all of which are his.

A familiar blonde man groans from under him.

"Holy shit."

"Potter?"

"I was just about to come get you."

"Well," Malfoy jokes, "It seems I've beaten you to the punch."

They disentangle their bodies and manage to stand up - neither having sustained any serious injuries.

"Are you ready to leave now?" The blonde's better dressed than usual, which is really saying something. He's wearing a fitted, collared maroon shirt with a black overcoat, slacks, and polished shoes. His hair is coiffed and swept back in an elegant swoop gathering at the back of his head, but still allowing for some volume in the front. Harry swallows.

By contrast, Harry's wearing a mustard-colored sweater that hangs a little too loose at the arms and that Ginny once called "uglier than Umbridge and Voldemort's lovechild,” some bootcut jeans - which he has also endured a lot of hate for, mainly from Ginny as well - and a loyal, but worn out, pair of runners.

"Yes - I just needed to pick up my pay from McGonagall. Care to walk with me?" As he's in the process of saying that and fiddling with his sleeve cuffs, he glances up and sees the mistletoe hanging innocuously above his head.

Their heads.

Harry and Malfoy's heads.

But he doesn't say anything or acknowledge it at all - the only indication that anything's changed at all is the red dusting his cheeks and the tips of his ears as he passes Harry and leads him to McGonagall's office.

The password is "Tinsel" and as soon as Malfoy's said it, the gargoyle reveals the secret passage and the two men follow it to the office.

Headmistress McGonagall, in the years that she's occupied the Headmistress/master office, has really made it her own. The entire space is neater, cleaner, with fewer papers and knickknacks and other magical artifacts lying about. The desk still sits in front, as well as two armchairs facing it. The bookshelves form a perimeter around the room, and the portraits line the back. A nice, ornate rug is the only thing decorating the floor and the fireplace burns bright and crackles in the silence of the room.

She looks up and over her glasses as they enter. "Ah." She reaches into her drawer and pulls out a brown envelope and holds it out to Malfoy. "I've received rave reviews."

Malfoy takes it and stows it in the inner pocket of his coat without checking its contents. He is unblinking and unflinching in front of her. "Thank you for the opportunity."

"I should be the one thanking you," she says while taking off her glasses. "You seemed to have sparked quite a passion for learning - and for researching - in the students. That's a rarity in all the years I've been in magical education."

Harry knows that, coming from McGonagall, it’s a high compliment. One glance at Malfoy tells him that he understands the honor as well - his head is slightly and graciously bowed. Behind the Headmistress, Dumbledore smiles, eyes twinkling the same as they always have. Snape isn't in his frame.

She continues. "I've gotten multiple requests for you to stay - practically an entire petition, in fact." A dramatic pause. "And I seek to honor their requests - but only if you're obliging."

Malfoy bites his lip. "I am certainly interested in your proposal..?"

McGonagall leans forward at her desk and motions for them to sit. "Draco, I want you to come back to teach sometime. If not next school year, at least something small like this during the break again. I've been looking to expand Hogwarts as an institution in recent years, and I believe my judgement is correct that your work will be key to that end."

With every sentence she speaks, Harry watches as Malfoy's eyebrows rise higher.

"You do not have to decide now. I would just like you to think about it."

"...I will," Malfoy manages. "And I will let you know my answer by owl soon."

She sits back and smiles, regarding not just Malfoy, but both of them. "Very well. I take it both of you have somewhere to be...?"

Harry and Malfoy take the hint and make to leave. When Harry looks back at the last moment, Snape has returned to his frame, and both he and Dumbledore are watching on as they leave - and not unkindly.

“Bloody hell.” Malfoy says as soon as they’re back out in the hallway and the secret corridor has sealed itself once again. He sighs, runs his hand through his hair, once, twice, and straightens up to face Harry. “Right. Now off to the Burrow?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“Will you come with me to gather my belongings first? It’s just two trunks. I hope it’s not an imposition to stay overnight, but since I’m moving out anyways…”

“N-not at all! Everyone stays through Christmas Day.”

“Fantastic.”

And they’re off. First stop is Malfoy’s living quarters, where Harry and Malfoy pick up a trunk each.

Second stop is Hagrid’s hut, where Harry says his goodbyes to his half-giant friend and his dog, and they exchange presents before they leave. Harry gifts Cane a new collar as his old one is barely hanging on by a thread, and Hagrid a pair of giant couple’s mittens - both wrapped, of course. Hagrid’s gift to him is small, but comfortably weighted. The two promise not to open each other’s presents until the next day. Malfoy is surprisingly calm during this exchange, and though he and Hagrid don’t exchange any more words than ‘Hello’ and ‘Goodbye,’ he _does_ play with Cane while Hagrid and Harry talk.

Third stop is right outside Hogwart’s grounds, where Harry and Malfoy link arms, take one last look at the castle, and apparate.

Fourth and last stop is the Burrow.

As Harry and Malfoy float their belongings up to the house, Harry hears happy voices and laughter coming from within. No one's in the yard - besides the garden gnomes and Crookshank, who's taking pleasure in chasing them as always. It looks like they're one of the last ones to arrive, but Harry's used to being late to Christmas.

They stop at the door and Harry glances over. "Are you ready, Malfoy?"

But Malfoy answers with a question of his own, "Don't you think you should call me Draco?"

"W-why?"

"Well, I'm coming as your date, right? And I think w-we've known each other for long enough that...it wouldn't be..." he falters, "it wouldn't be weird, right?"

Harry ponders his argument, which seems logical, but it still makes his gut twist.  But since Malfoy's asking....

"Sure. A-and you can call me Harry."

"Logically," he responds, voice crisp and composure mostly restored.

After taking a deep breath, Harry steels himself and knocks on the door.

The chatter from inside stops all at once. Harry can hear a muffled "Is that-" before the voice is shushed by what sounds like several people at the same time. There are footsteps, and suddenly the door is flung open and it’s Ginny standing before them in the doorway.

"Harry!" She pulls him in for a hug. She smells just as she always does - like her shampoo, which is cinnamon-y, and like her perfume, which soaks her body in vanilla.

"Hi, Ginny."

They separate and Ginny wastes no time in holding her hand out to Ma-Draco. "Nice to see you again, Malfoy."

He takes her hand and they share a formal shake, as if they're potential business partners meeting for the first time. "Likewise, Ms. Weasley."

"Please, call me Ginny. There are too many Weasley's in this house - you'll even confuse yourself. Come on in. The food's almost ready."

Harry and Malfoy walk inside, the former heading straight to the living room, where he knows everyone will be. Molly and Arthur; Bill and Fleur and their daughters Victoire and Dominique; Charlie and his boyfriend, fellow dragon researcher Ion; Percy and his wife Audrey and their daughters Molly II and Lucy; George and Angelina and their children Fred II and Roxanne; and Hermione and Ron and Rose.

The kids get to him first.

"Uncle Harry!" "Finally!" "Harry!" They crowd around him and chatter in excitement. Most of them are practically teenagers -  Victoire, Dominique, Molly II, Lucy, Fred II, and Roxanne - but for some reason their enthusiasm and outright preference for Harry have remained through the years. Harry is pretty sure he's not that interesting; all he ever does is tell them stories about Hogwarts and the War and Quidditch, but they eat it up eagerly every year without fail.

"Hello everyone. How have you all been?" He picks up Lucy first, who's the youngest of Percy's children and also happens to be the most emotionally needy. Every time he sees her, she insists on either being near him or held by him at all times, and if she doesn't get her way, she screams.

"Merry Christmas!" Roxanne, Angelina and George's youngest daughter, beams up at him, her curly hair dashed this way and that across her forehead. "Did you get me something this year?"

"Of course I did," Harry assures her while trying to balance Lucy on his hip, "I do every year, remember?"

"Harry! Harry!" Victoire, Bill and Fleur's oldest daughter, tugs on his free hand toward their massive heap of toys in the corner. "Come play with us! We're just starting."

"What are you playing?"

"House!" Several children say in unison.

From the other corner, Molly speaks up, "Now, now, let the adults have Harry first."

The children groan, but leave him alone once Harry promises to play with them after dinner. Lucy, however, stays with him.

"Merry Christmas, Molly," he says as he kisses her cheek.

"Merry Christmas."

Mal-Draco steps forward and bows, startling Harry. For a moment, he had completely forgotten that he had come here with him - the blonde was so quiet.

"Pleased to see you again, Mrs. Weasley."

Though Harry’s all-too-aware of every single pair of eyes on him in this moment, he steps forward anyway for Draco’s sake; he deserves a proper introduction. “Everyone, this is Draco, my date tonight.”

Everyone’s expressions are hard to read. Bill, Fleur, Audrey, and Percy smile politely, Molly and Arthur’s faces are inscrutable, Charlie and Ion don’t react much - probably because neither have had much interaction with Draco in the first place - Ginny attempts a smile, but it falls into a half-grimace instead - and Hermione and Ron beam at him.

Molly is the first one to break the silence. "Merry Christmas to you too, Draco. Welcome to the Burrow." To Harry's immense relief, she says nothing more and simply smiles the same kind smile like always and gestures to the massive, cushy couch they bought a few years ago to fit all the new family members. There is only one spot left, and it looks like a squeeze for two people. "Sit, sit, the food isn't going to be ready for a while."

Glancing at each other nervously, Harry and Draco obey, though it is indeed a squeeze.  
Ron and Hermione are sitting to their left, and Bill and Fleur are sitting to their right. Hermione smiles at Harry and reaches over for an awkward half-hug with Harry's other arm keeping Lucy balanced on his knee. "Merry Christmas. How was Hagrid?"  
"Fine. He's thinking about proposing."  
"Oh!" Hermione's jaw drops and Ron pumps his fist in the air while a few others - Bill, Charlie, Molly, Ginny, and Arthur - cheer. Especially since the War, the Weasley clan has remained close with Hagrid, and quite invested in his happiness and his relationship with Madame Maxine. Molly even knitted her an extra-large sweater with the letter M emblazoned on the front, which, for whatever reason, the extremely fashion-conscious giantess adores and still wears every winter.  
"That's fantastic!" Bill enthuses. "They're perfect together."  
"It's about time, too." Ron adds.   
Molly sighs and looks wistful. "Young love. I do hope they invite us to the wedding."  
Laughing, Arthur replies, "That's going to be quite a big wedding then." After a moment, he adds, "That was a good pun."  
"Dad..." Bill, Charlie, George, and Ron groan in unison.

Luna, who Harry only just noticed has been sitting on the floor, leaning up against Ginny, muses. "They're a beautiful couple."

“Luna? What are you doing here?” Yet another friend he hasn’t seen in some time.

Ginny snaps, “She’s my date, Harry.”

“I-what?”

“Harry, did you not know?” Molly asks.

“No? Know what?”

Malfoy covers Harry’s hand with his own. “They’re dating, Harry,” he tells him under his breath.

“Oh. Why didn’t anyone tell me? Hermione?” When Harry turns to look at her, she’s avoiding his eyes.

“Yikes.” Arthur says, which earns him a swat on the shoulder by his wife.  
"How's Gawp?" Hermione, in a desperate attempt to change the conversation,  continues her questions.  
Harry bites and drops the topic. "Er....I actually didn't see him while I was there, but Hagrid said he was doing well. He's living in the forest for the winter.  
"Why?"  
"It's...uh...warmer there, or something?"  
"Oh." A confused look crosses Hermione's face as she ponders the mechanics of the concept.

“Uncle Harry!” - that’s the only warning he gets before a ball of energy collides into him.  
“Merry Christmas, Rose.” He smiles fondly at her.

Without wasting any time, she climbs into his lap to join Lucy, who’s used to this and doesn’t object; she’s actually practically asleep on his shoulder anyways, and Rose’s scream only makes her lift her head for one sleepy second before setting it back down again. “Merry Christmas! Who’s this?” She points at Draco. Harry’s surprised - up until now, none of the other children have acknowledged Draco at all.

“Rose, this is Mr. Malfoy, my-uh-guest.” Harry winces internally at the slight stutter he couldn’t stop from slipping out. “Mr. Malfoy, this is Rose Granger-Weasley.”

Draco takes Rose’s small hand and kisses its back before saying, his voice silky-smooth, “Enchante. And please call me Draco.”

Unused to this kind of high-society treatment, all Rose can do is giggle at Malfoy’s strangeness. “That tickles!”

“My apologies,” Malfoy says with a twinkle in his eyes.

Suddenly, her attention snaps back to Harry. “Uncle Harry! Can we go flying now?” Without even waiting for an answer, she screws up her face and begins begging: “Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease-”

“Okay, okay!” Harry holds up his hands in defeat. “I did promise you.”

Her eyes open wide as she looks up at Harry - for a moment, Harry sees Hermione’s face in her, despite her of shock of similarly curly, but red hair. “Really!?”

But before Harry can respond, Draco lays a hand on his arm and interrupts with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Wait. Are you _sure_ you want Uncle Harry to teach you?”

“Yes…?”

“Even when _I_ was the best Seeker at Hogwarts when we went to school?”

“What?!” She practically climbs into Draco’s lap in her eagerness to hear slander against Harry. “Really?!”

He nods to confirm, and behind him Bill and Fleur have to hide their snickering. “Really.”

“Even better than Uncle Harry?”

“Of cour-”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Harry butts in, shaking off Draco’s hand, “Don’t listen to him, Rose.”

She looks between the two men, both earnestly trying to curry her favor, and laughs - completely tickled by all the attention.

Hermione, who had been listening quietly until now, adds her two cents. "Rosie, which one do you choose?"

"Obviously," Ron answers for his daughter after scoffing, "they'll have to prove their skill, right?"

"A fly off..." Draco purses his lips, his brows scrunching up in thought. "Not a bad idea."

"Merlin, are we really doing this?" Harry’s pulse jumps at the thought of competing just like old times.

"Yes," Draco picks himself up from the couch, removes his coat, and begins rolling up his sleeves. The fire crackling in the fireplace illuminates him, scattering the colors of his shirt and turning it from maroon to red . "Get up, Harry, let's go. Molly, there's still time on the food, yes?"

Molly blinks in surprise at being suddenly addressed, and nods her head. "Y-yes, it should be ready in forty-five minutes or so."

"Perfect. And may I inquire about your family’s brooms?"

At that, Ron leaps to his feet. "In the shed, I'll show you."

"Thank you. Coming, Harry? Or would you like to forfeit now?" His voice is taunting, teasing, and he's saying and doing all of this knowing full well what Harry's reaction will be. It's at times like these that Harry fears that Draco is actually fully aware of the effect that he has on Harry - and is playing it to his advantage.

But Harry is a simple man, and maybe a little bit dumb. "And save you a loss? Not a chance." He stands, with Lucy still in his arms. "After you."

 

Soon, there's a whole crowd of people - which is basically what the entire immediate Weasley family boils down to - gathered in their garden. It's dark out by now, but with a combination of enchanted Christmas lanterns floating here and there and nearly every wandowner's Lumos, visibility levels are actually pretty good.

Lucy has returned to her parents and now joins the rest of them in eagerly watching the match and anticipating the winner. Both Draco and Harry have a broom in hand: two Cleansweeps, which are extraordinarily old school by now, what with all the fancy "Pulsar 3000"s and "Andromeda 4000"s nowadays, but they still get the job done. They're reliable and have the same specs as each other, which is all they really need for this contest.

Their objective is pretty simple: catch the Snitch. With the magic wards in place, there's no chance of it escaping from the Weasley property, but it also means Harry and Draco have a smaller space to work with, which might result in more intense, cutthroat competition - not like they needed more of that or anything.

Ginny is the one to release the Snitch, since she also volunteered to be the referee. With a golden flash, it's gone from her hand immediately, but Harry's keen eye has remained intact through the years. He subtly follows it from the corner of his eye, but tries to make it seem as though he's lost it. Glancing at Draco, he realizes that, either the blonde's doing the same thing, or he actually doesn't know where the Snitch is.

 _Oh well,_ Harry thinks while adjusting his broom in preparation to kick off, _I’ll find out soon enough._

“Ready?” Ginny’s announces the start now. Draco and Harry look at each other and their audience once last time. Ron is holding Rose, who gives them both two thumbs up. The rest of the children look on in awe. _Come of think of it, I don’t think any of them have seen me fly before - but to be fair, I haven’t flown in a long time._ Harry looks back over at Draco, who has already trained his eyes ahead, on Ginny. Under his clothing, it’s hard to tell his physical ability, but Draco seems to be just as in shape as he was in Hogwarts. …. _Maybe this was a bad idea._ But it is too late to go back on his word now. “3...2...1….Go!”

With one, strong kick, Harry's up in the air and flying higher and higher with Draco doing the same at his side. He knows that the Snitch initially flew off to the back-right of the garden, but since he took his eyes off the area for a few moments, it could've flown off to anywhere by now. Desperate, both to win and to do so quickly, Harry scans the scene in search of just a small glint of light reflecting off of gold.  
Draco begins flying away from Harry immediately, though it seems more like he's also searching rather than he's already found the Snitch. However, Harry doesn't want to take the risk - Draco was less distracted than him after the release - so he begins to cruise right behind him just in case it's the right direction after all.

Taunting him, Draco calls back to Harry over his shoulder, "Need some guidance,  Harry?"

Though Harry's craning his neck, squinting his eyes, trying his absolute best to spot the Snitch, nothing sticks out to him. Not much movement, except from the gnomes beneath them, who are looking up at them warily, and from the Weasleys, who are still standing there watching them. The children wave, and Harry gives them a quick wave back.

"Bugger off, Draco."

He doesn't respond, but simply laughs and starts to circle the yard faster.

"I can't believe you dragged me into this," Harry complains over the sound of the wind in his ears.

Draco dismisses him with a wave of his hand. "You had a choice the whole time."

"You made sure that wasn't the case."

"I knew you wanted to do it." The blonde briefly looks back at him with one eyebrow raised and a smirk playing on his lips. "I know how competitive you are."

He has a point, most of their school years have been premised on competition - from Quidditch to schoolwork, everything has been grounds for fights, for comparison. Hell, just the other day they faced off in an intense snowball fight! Despite all the years in between now and Hogwarts, this, at least, has remained a constant in their relationship.

"Like you can talk."

"I can't help it," Draco sticks his nose in the air, "It's the Slytherin in me."

It's Harry's turn to laugh now, and right as he begins to, he spots a glint of gold in the distance and almost chokes.

"Are you-" Draco begins but shuts up immediately.

Neither men hesitate; it's like seeing that flash of gold ignites something old inside of them, some kind of muscle memory or instinct that they'd forgotten about until now. They push their brooms forward faster and faster and faster, until they're neck and neck. The Snitch flutters ahead of them still, but the gap between it and them grows smaller and smaller, until Harry's fingertips are brushing against its smooth metal body.

Suddenly, Draco, in a last-ditch effort to grab the Snitch before Harry, takes one last swipe at it, but leans too far forward. He wobbles on his broom for a gut-wrenching moment, before beginning to fall, a panicked-yelp escaping his open mouth.

He doesn't have the Snitch. He never reached it, so it's still flying out in front of them, but Harry doesn't care about that now. While pulling the broom back into a sudden stop with only his legs, Harry uses both hands to grab onto Draco's. He's heavy, and Harry vaguely notices Draco’s broom falling to the ground beneath them, but by utilizing all the muscles he hasn't worked out in years, Harry somehow manages to secure Draco onto his broom. And by secured, he means the blonde isn’t falling anymore - but with the way he's desperately trying not to slip off, grasping at the twigs and at Harry's arms, he doesn't seem any less anxious about his situation. He's more slung over the broom than actually riding it; he's balancing on his stomach and his legs are dangling off the side. Harry knows he can't hold that position for long.

"Harry! Draco!" Hermione calls up to them from below, her wand out.

Harry slowly, carefully, begins to descend with one hand gripping the broom and the other gripping Draco's shirt, trying to keep him on board. Ginny, who had taken a seat down below instead of flying and keeping up with them, finally arrives and holds Draco's legs so their weight isn't causing him to slip off anymore.

"I got you," She assures him and gently pats his calf on their way down. "You alright, Draco?"  
He doesn't have any words for her, only a slightly strained groan. His eyes are shut tightly, and even in the dim light, Harry can see that his face is red - either from exertion or from embarrassment, it's hard to tell.  
Once safely on the ground, Draco and Harry lie in the grass for a bit, breathing heavily.   
"Are you alright? Did you break anything?" Hermione scans Draco with her brows furrowed and her parent-voice on, but she doesn't touch him.  
"I'm....alright." Draco's voice doesn't sound upset or frightened. On the contrary, he sounds quite calm, and other than for the flush in his cheeks and the rapid rise of his chest as he catches his breath, there's no other indication that he just went through a near-death experience. "Nothing hurts, at least."  
Ginny helps Harry up and pats him on the back. "I guess your talent extends to catching Dracos as well as Snitches." Her tone is light and joking, but her hand is slightly trembling. "I'm really sorry I got careless like that."  
Harry doesn't say anything. He doesn't think he can say anything. The last time he and Draco were on a broom together, he almost died too. The memory of Harry, Draco, the Room of Requirement, and Fiendfyre is an all-too familiar visitor to Harry's dreams. It's one of the worst, which is saying something.

"It's alright," Draco says, offering up a weak smile. Though it's the dead of winter, beads of perspiration trickles down from Malfoy's hairline and onto his forehead.  
But Hermione's not convinced. "Are you absolutely sure?"   
Harry notices out of his periphery that a few of the spectators have been creeping closer, while the rest - mostly the children - have stayed back.   
Draco suddenly shoots up so he’s sitting, turns, and waves at the Weasleys. "I'm alright!" The children, who had been looking on worryingly, some even closing their eyes in terror, smile and cheer in relief. "Help me up?" Draco mutters to Harry, and the latter obliges.   
Once he's fully on his feet, Draco walks over to Rose and bows his head. "My apologies. I don't think either one of us caught the Snitch this time."  
She hugs him. "That's okay! I'm so glad you're okay."  
Draco glances at Ron, whose eyebrows haven't returned to their normal, low position on his forehead, and back at Hermione, before hugging her back. "Thank you, Ms. Rose. I appreciate your concern."  
"That was so cool, though!" One of the other children - Dominique, Bill and Fleur's youngest daughter - pipes up.  
"Yeah!" "It was awesome!" The others clamor over themselves in agreement with her and crowd around Draco.  
He chuckles. "I'm glad you liked my technique - I honed it at Hogwarts."  
"Were you a Seeker? Like Uncle Harry?"  
"Yes," Draco smirks at Harry, and it looks so normal that his heart calms down and skips a beat at the same time. "We were rivals."  
The children ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ at that, and their parents, the adult Weasleys, grin. What they know and the children don't of course, is that the Malfoy and Weasley families have been rivals and enemies for decades now, but to the children, the divide is an artifact of the past. Suddenly, Harry feels old.  
"I have an idea!" Rose shouts, and the yard quiets down at once. She sticks a finger up in the air and declares, "I think both Uncle Harry and Uncle Draco should fly with me. Like what they just did."

 _Uncle Draco._ Harry can tell that he and Draco have the same thought at the same time, from the looks of the blush tinting the blonde’s cheeks.

"I-uh-alright?" Draco stutters, his composure a little off-kilter.

Ginny runs up to Rose and scoops her up in her arms, sending the child into a fit of giggles. "Rosie, I think that's a great idea. You're so smart!"

"Just like her mother!" Ron calls before sending Hermione a wink.

Hermione laughs, modestly trying to play it off, but Harry can tell from years of knowing her that she's pleased.

Draco seems to have recovered. "Alright, let's get to it. Did you want to fly now?"

"Yes! Yes!"

"Excellent. Harry, mind bringing the brooms over?"

He does just that. And then they spend the next thirty or so minutes teaching the basics of flying to Rose - and ultimately to most of the other children, who, upon seeing her having so much fun, naturally want to join in. The adults leave for the warmth of the house as time goes on, all save for Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and Luna, who stand in a circle a little ways off, partly in conversation with each other, partly watching Draco and Harry and their impromptu flying workshop.

By the end, Rose can kick off and land fairly safely, but the other children like Dominique or Lucy can't do much more than hover shakily a few inches off the ground. Teaching children isn't really Harry's strong suit - he neither actively likes nor dislikes it - but this is obviously where Draco shines. He teaches even more expressively, more animatedly, than he does with his teenage students at Hogwarts. His gray eyes shine in the dim lantern light, and Harry finds himself looking into them more often than he looks anywhere else.

And Harry suspects that Draco would've happily taught late into the night, had Arthur not poked his head out of the door and called them in: "Food's ready!"

At those words, the children yelp and cheer, and quickly drop their brooms and dash for the house. It seems that, even in the face of learning how to fly, Molly’s cooking still takes precedent. Harry's grumbling stomach agrees with them.

Harry and Draco take the brooms back to the shed before joining up with their friends, who're still huddled in the corner of the yard, waiting on them. "Let's go?" Draco asks them while adjusting his coat and smoothing down his hair.

Luna nods. "Let's."

They make their way back to the house, and while walking Hermione asks Draco with awe on her face, "Draco, I didn't know you were so good with children."

He shrugs and gives her a small smile. "I'm used to them, I suppose." Ron opens the door and they all crowd into the warmth of the house. Everyone else’s gathered around the dining table, and they wave at them as they enter. Almost every square inch of the table's area is covered at this point, but dishes are still floating in from the kitchen, directed by Molly's wand. "Take a seat, we're almost beginning. Hope all that flying has worked up an appetite!" A particularly attractive bowl full of mashed potatoes lands on the table in front of Harry.  

Their group sits on the unoccupied side of the table, and Hermione and Ron pull Rose onto their laps to squeeze in. Harry does the same to Lucy, who's once again stuck to his side. Draco sits to Harry’s left, close enough so that their shoulders touch a bit.

Hermione carries on the conversation she and Draco were having outside. "Do you have young relatives...?"

Draco scoffs at this. "I suppose I have Teddy, but other than that, no." He shrugs off his coat, folds it, and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. "Part of my sentence after the War was community service, and I chose to serve a Muggle War orphanage. And I've been there ever since." He says it so casually, almost in a throw-away line, an _oh, by the way,_ as if working closely with a War orphanage for years is something that _everyone_ does.

Hermione gasps. “That’s incredible, Draco.”

“What did you just say, dear?” Molly inquires. The whole family’s listening in now, and Harry can almost feel secondhand pressure.

But Draco doesn’t crack. “I was just telling Gran-Hermione what I’ve been doing since the War, Ma’am.”

Even Arthur gets in on this. “And that is?” There’s nothing malicious behind his question, and none of the Weasley’s look angry either.

Draco answers readily, his words flowing smoothly off his tongue and into the ears of the some dozen Weasleys gathered around the table, "Volunteering at a Muggle War orphanage, sir."

Charlie is the first to respond, "Really? Which one?"

"Haven."

There's not much recognition of the name among them - except for Hermione and Arthur.

The former remarks, "Oh! I think I visited once when it first opened. The owner seemed nice."

The latter adds on that while carving himself some of the ham. "I think I’ve heard the name around the office once or twice."

Draco looks alarmed at this. "In what context?"

Arthur chews, then swallows. "Just in passing, I think."

"I see."

"So," Molly pipes up, "What do you do there?"

"I just play with the children, and help around sometimes. The owner doesn't have any hired help."

Bill lets out a low whistle. "And how many children do they oversee?"

After a moment of reflection, Draco answers, "Around fifteen, I believe."

"Poor dear, that's a lot of children for even two people to handle." Molly adds, smiling wryly and looking pointedly at her children. "Arthur and I could barely handle seven!"

A round of laughter makes its way around the table, not only from the said children, but also from her grandchildren - at least the ones who have been following the conversation. Harry has to hide a laugh behind his glass of water, and Draco smiles too. He seems more relaxed now, his shoulders no longer tense, his legs no longer crossed nervously, and his hands no longer fidgeting at the buttons of his shirt.

"But what about work, Draco?" Ginny inquires casually. Before the War, such a question directed at any Malfoy would be wholly unusual - and even insulting - but everyone knows that most Malfoy assets were seized after 2/3rds of the immediate family were sentenced to Azkaban. The name no longer holds the weight it once did, and the media had a good time with that story for solid months.

"I work at a Muggle jazz club weekday nights now, but I bounced around between many different occupations for a while."

"Jazz?" Arthur leans forward with interest and a steaming dinner roll in his hand. "Do they hold shows every night?"

The wave of rolling eyes around the table is almost audible; after the War, Arthur's interest in Muggle technologies expanded full force into the realm of music. One of his favorite genres is jazz, Harry suddenly remembers from a very animated conversation he had with him once - during most of which Harry was completely lost.

But this catches Draco off guard, and he practically flinches. "Uh. Yes, they do. But the longer ones are Tuesdays and Fridays."

"Do you bartend?" Ginny looks him up and down. "I could see you as a bartender."

"You flatter me, but no, I do not bartend. A friend of mine does. I-uh-actually perform."

In the shocked silence that follows, Harry swears he can hear the dust settling. (Not really though, as the children are all eating on noisily, paying no attention to the adults.) Harry shovels a forkful of green beans into his mouth to keep himself busy.

"I never knew you were so artistic, Draco," Luna muses while cutting the piece of chicken on her plate. Steam is still rising from its white breast.

Ginny reaches over and squeezes her hand, smiling. "I second that. You never seemed that way in Hogwarts, at least.”

“I don’t think anyone knew, even my closest friends. I wanted to fit in.” Draco eats a small cut of the pork and groans. “This is fantastic, Molly.” Then he turns to Harry and splits the rest of his piece with him. “Here, have some, Harry.”

Though his behavior catches Harry off guard, he takes the slice anyways and murmurs his thanks before taking a bite. He’s right. It _is_ good - juicy and tender. _Molly’s outdone herself again._

Molly seems confused by the sudden change in conversation too. "Th-thank you, dear. Eat up, there's plenty left."

"Here," Arthur cuts off a pretty decently-sized chunk, and plops it onto Draco's plate. "Tell me more, I'm utterly fascinated by Muggle music - especially jazz." More eye-rolls.

"Oh? You have good taste," Draco jokes.

"There!" Arthur half-shouts in triumph, staring around at his family defiantly. "Draco agrees! Jazz is a fantastic invention. And I honestly think the Wizarding community could benefit greatly from its healing power."

Draco nods deeply, his lips curling into a genuine, pleased smile. Harry gets the sudden urge to read up on jazz, to learn its history, to properly listen to this music genre that he's had very little exposure to all his life (Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon despised it, considering it just another trashy, _American_ music genre). He wants Draco to look that way at him; he wants to please him. He clears his throat and digs into his mashed potatoes, feeling his face heat up.

"But-yes. I specialize in jazz piano, and that's what I play at the club."

"Wonderful." Arthur shakes his head while smiling. "I wish I could learn, but I've heard that, if piano is difficult, then jazz piano is even more so. Especially improvisation!"

"Yes, that's correct, at least from my experience. But I enjoy it, so it doesn't make it so bad."

"You must have quite a talent for it, especially since they hired you. What's the name of the club? I'd love to come and watch you sometime."

"The Amber Tap. My next performance is tomorrow night, coincidentally."

"Tom-" Arthur begins, but Ginny cuts him off. "Let's go, then!" She looks to Luna; their hands are still intertwined. "Would you like to?"

"Go where?" Lucy asks, tugging on Harry's shirt.

Rose joins in, too, chanting. "I want to go! I want to go!"

Lucy and Rose are not alone - most of the other children express either mild or intense interest.

"Charlie," Ion speaks up for the first time tonight. "Let's go. I want to see what this...jazz is."

Charlie smiles. "I don't see why not. We don’t have to go back until the day after."

It's a strange sight, seeing so much of the Weasley actually express interest in jazz for once. Arthur is visibly pleased by this change of heart in his family - even if it did take Draco's involvement and sponsorship to make it happen. Clapping his hands together, he announces, "It's settled! Weasley family Christmas outing to The Amber Tap!"

Harry looks over to Draco. He’s smiling, but it's tight-lipped. "Fantastic. But I am sorry to say that the children cannot join us, as the bar is still 18+." This elicits a round of disappointed groans from the children.

Percy and Audrey, after sharing a look, speak up. "We're willing to watch them while you all go," Audrey announces. Out of all the partners that Molly and Arthur's children have chosen, Harry still thinks that Audrey is the strangest, and he's thought that way since the first time Percy brought her to the Burrow to meet the family. And he doesn't mean it in a derogatory way towards her, in fact, it's the very opposite. She's beautiful: dark skin, hair, and eyes, full eyelashes, high cheekbones, an elegant, flat nose, and an amazing figure. That was the first thing everyone noticed about her - her modelesque aesthetic - but the second thing was even better: her personality. When she speaks, her voice flows like molten gold, and when she directs that speech towards you, it completely captivates your attention. Kind, patient, and independent, Harry even had a small crush on her for a few days, before he had no choice but to squash it once it became clear that her bond with Percy was unbreakable.

In comparison, Percy just isn't even on the same level as her. He's not particularly ugly, but he's undeniably dull as a person, and kind of a prick - at least in Harry’s opinion. For Audrey, however, he's obedient and compromising and loving, so perhaps Harry is only opposed to their couplehood not because they're bad for each other, but because he's a bit jealous.

"Thank you Audrey, you're too sweet." Molly says while beaming at her. Every since the first time they met, Molly has been her biggest fan. Harry remembers, with some amusement, a conversation he overheard between Molly and Percy once when he was dating her, which really just consisted of Molly threatening him: "Percival, you better not mess this one up, or I will have several choice words."

Audrey nods at Draco. "I'm sorry we won't been able to make it this time, but I'm definitely interested." She nudges Percy and he stutters out his agreement, but it’s obviously half-hearted. _Prick._

Draco waves his hand. "No problem at all. I'm there every night of the week, so you could just stop by anytime you'd like. The one tomorrow is just the Christmas special."

"So it's settled then?" Angelina asks. "Because I'll have to let my parents know that we're leaving early from dinner tomorrow."

George gasps in response. "Oh, that's right! I’d forgotten about that." Angelina swats at him.

"I think so," Ginny ventures, ignoring George and answering Angelina’s question, "Unless anyone else has any other objections." No one does.

Molly picks up the conversation from where they left off. "So, Draco, how is working there? You must meet many interesting Muggles."

"Yes, and it's quite rewarding, at least for me. I enjoy engaging with my audience - especially the regulars"

"I hope they don't work you too hard."

"Not at all, Ma'am."

Audrey inquires, leaning her head on her hand, "Did you receive this past week off for Christmas, at least?"

"No, not normally, but my boss gave me special permission to take off for another job of mine."

Before the questions come, Harry steps in for the first time since dinner began to explain. "He was teaching at Hogwarts. I saw him while I was there." Draco looks at him from the corner of his eye, but he neither looks particularly pleased or displeased at him.

"Oh!" Hermione's jaw drops. "You were _teaching_ over the break?"

"Yes. It was just a test run, but I believe the Headmistress is looking to install more short classes over the break in the future."

After eating his last bite of food, Bill swallows and asks, "What did you teach?"

"Musical Theory. The class focused on my own research surrounding music and its roots in and effects on magic."

Harry watches as some eyebrows climb higher and higher and some jaws drop lower and lower. Since he went through the same shock only a week or so before, Harry understands what they must be thinking now. The Malfoy name has been tied up in money, connections, and inherited power for so long that the assumption is often that the individual members aren't really that talented, or even worthy of any of those things. And to be fair, there's a definite argument to be made there about how no one family, not even the most gifted or talented, deserve the sheer amount of power and privilege that the Malfoys had possessed before the war, but what Harry's rapidly learning is that Draco has the true talent to rebuild his family name from scratch. Harry can almost see some of the last dregs of resentment towards Draco melt away from the faces of the Weasleys. The Malfoy family as a concept will never garner full forgiveness - the past there is too painful for that to ever happen - but Draco Malfoy as an individual is proving himself to be different from his family. Harry feels an odd sense of pride, though he had nothing to do with any of it.

"Wow." Hermione leans back in her chair, her plate clean. "I'm guessing you drew a lot from Arithmancy?"

"To a degree. I primarily use that and Muggle physics as a basis for my research." Draco takes a sip from his glass of water.

At the mention of something Muggle, Arthur perks up. "Muggle physics?"

"There's much the Wizarding community can learn from Muggle science, I believe. It has a lot of overlap with magic."

"That's very interesting..." Hermione trails off. "I've made a few connections before, but I never thought to fully explore it."

Charlie gives his two cents, glancing at Ion. "Romania's already been working on something similar for a while - their Ministry of Magic, or their equivalent anyway, is pretty liberal."

Ion nods to confirm. "The Wizarding community there is very accepting toward Muggles. And their technologies." He digs around in his pocket and pulls out a small flip phone. When he flips it open, the screen lights up, but instead of numbers on the buttons, there are only letters. "Instead of Portkeys now, we use this. Type in any location, and you will go there. Perfect for those who can't apparate, like me."

Draco leans forward and squints at the phone. "Why can't you apparate? If you don't mind my asking."

"I am anemic. If I make a mistake, I might die." Ion passes the phone to Draco, and the blonde takes it gingerly and inspects it.

"I see," he murmurs. "And you said that your Ministry supports research into the connection between Muggles and Wizards?"

"Yes. Though I have never heard anything about music before."

"It's quite an unusual path," Arthur says, "I'd be very interested in reading your research sometime."

Draco's passes the phone back to Ion and rubs his face. "I...We'll see. Once it's ready, I might."

Hermione asks, her eyes bright. "Are you thinking of getting it published somewhere? If it's what you say it is, I don't think anyone in the community has done what you've done."

Draco’s smile wavers. "N-no. I don't think so. I mean, I'm not sure yet what will happen in the future, but for now I just want to focus on finishing up my research."

Now that they're done eating, the children dash off into the living and continue their game from before dinner. Only Lucy remains, still sitting comfortably in Harry's lap and finishing off her dinner. Harry has been regularly cutting up the scraps of food too big for her so she can actually eat.

Hermione frowns in disappointment. "Alright. I respect that. But I'll second you, Arthur, I would be very interested in reading it when you finish."

"...Thank you. I will let you both know when that is." Draco's face is smooth, clear, his eyes hooded and his lips drawn in a straight line.

George lets out a burp and follows it with a lethargic "Excuse me," but Molly still scowls at him anyway. "Manners!" She reprimands him, but the rest of the family laugh anyways.

"How's the shop going?" Harry asks him.

"Very well." George puffs out his chest a little. "We're looking to opening our first store in America in a month, actually."

Bill whistles at that. "What city?"

"New York."

Another whistle, and a thump on the back by Arthur. "Proud of you, son."

Arthur and Molly start levitating the empty plates and dishes back into the kitchen, clearing the table. While flicking her wand, Molly asks, "You're going for the grand opening, right?"  
"We both are," Angelina answers. She and George smile at each other and intertwine their hands. "And then we're spending our late honeymoon in America."  
"That's wonderful!" Fleur exclaims with a slight French accent, faint now after years spent in Britain.  
Although George and Angelina married a considerable number of years ago, they did so at a busy time for both of them: her career as a Curse Breaker was just taking off, sending her to all parts of the globe on missions, and Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was opening store after store all over the United Kingdom. As a result, they didn't see each other often for several months at a time. Harry remembers feeling bad for them, mostly because he and Ginny were in the same boat - with her traveling everywhere with her Quidditch team, playing games and doing publicity tours, they rarely had time for just the two of them. But Angelina and George are strong people, probably the strongest that Harry's every met, and they only seemed to have minor spats during that time.   
Both of their careers haven't slowed down much since then - quite the opposite, in fact - but with their professional success has come more flexibility in regards to their schedules. They often had to miss family get-togethers like Christmas in the past, but now they can actually take some time off.  
After discussing their trip to America for a little while - which cities they're visiting, what attractions they're seeing - a comfortable lull in the conversation descends on them. Harry looks over at Draco; he seems to be happier now that the conversation has moved on from him. Harry knows that everyone was just curious because no one had spoken to, or even seen Draco Malfoy since the War, but all the focused attention seemed to have tired Draco out quite a bit. Harry knows all too well what that feels like, so he squeezes Draco's hand in sympathy. The blonde looks at him, surprised, but not alarmed, and squeezes back. Harry can feel multiple people watching, trying to be subtle about it, but failing - Ginny being one of them  
Hermione clears her throat, and everyone's attention immediately snaps to her. "Everyone, I have an announcement to make."  
Ron puts an arm around her. "We have an announcement to make."  
Putting a hand on her stomach, Hermione opens her mouth to speak, but Molly has already caught on. Her mouth opens, and a shriek comes out.  
"Congratulations!" "Congrats!" "When did you find out?" A chorus of voices explode with noise all at once, and Harry blinks slowly, trying to sort through it all. Molly seems on the verge of tears, and Arthur is rubbing her back in circles.   
Hermione and Ron are beaming, practically glowing with happiness. This is basically what happened when they announced they were pregnant with Rose - only Molly had actually fainted then. Progress.  
A pang of guilt racks Harry. He had been so caught up in Draco and Hogwarts that he had completely forgotten about the news until they announced it.  
"Congratulations," Draco tells them through the chaos, smiling at them warmly. "Have you told Rose?"  
"Yes." Hermione beams. "And she's overjoyed."  
"Splendid. She'll be a great big sister."  
"Thank you, Draco." Hermione and Draco share a meaningful look - not hostile, but almost friendly - for a few seconds before she breaks it and looks away.   
Draco turns to Harry then, gives him a wry smile, and subtly gestures to the family members gathered around the table. "Do they always respond this way to a pregnancy?"  
"Yeah....Pretty much. Molly fainted when she found out about Rose."  
His blond eyebrows jump up and he chuckles. "A classic reaction. I think celebration in my family has always been more formal and subdued.” He thinks for a moment before adding, “Actually, if my father were still with us, I think he would also faint at this point.”

Lucius Malfoy is still alive. It’s a little known fact because the media has lost interest in him, and they’ve lost interest in him because he’s been Kissed. Harry feels uneasy and unsure of what is safe to say about him - everything seems like a landmine.

“W-why would he faint?”

“Because I told him I was gay,” Draco answers simply, without much emotion in his voice. “And he wants an heir more than anything.”

 _Oh._ Harry directs his attention back to the table just in time to see Molly taking out an enormous jug of tequila and setting it on the table. It’s the jug that she saves for special occasions, mostly pregnancy announcements. “Let’s celebrate!” Bill, Ron, George, and Ginny cheer and drain whatever liquid’s remaining in their cups in preparation. She doesn’t waste any time in divvying out the alcohol to most everyone, occasionally pouring too much, causing some to spill on the tablecloth.

“Harry? Draco?” She points to the jug.

Draco nods and passes her his cup. “Please.”

Harry does the same.

Hermione doesn’t drink for obvious reasons, but Charlie, and Ion are the only other ones who abstain, partly because a Burrow Christmas without any sober adults is a disaster that no one wants to remember or repeat ever again, but mostly because Ion doesn’t drink because he’s Muslim, and Charlie has sworn it off as well since they first started dating. “I never did like the taste, anyways,” Charlie once confided in Harry the first time he introduced Ion to the family.

Cups go up full and are set down empty again. The tequila lingers in Harry’s throat as a slight burning sensation, but he bears it. More shots, more conversation, more talk of the pregnancy - minutes seem to pass, or maybe hours? The burning sensation has moved down, lower and lower until it reaches his stomach, warming it up. Lucy is asleep. It might be Harry’s imagination, but it seems like, for every shot he takes, Draco takes two more. Even through the thickening fog settling in his mind, Harry feels concern for him.

“Wait,” Harry catches Draco’s arm before his cup reaches his mouth, “How many have you had?”

“I dunno, seven?”

“Holy shit.”

“I’m fine, Pott-sorry-Harry.” He wrenches his arm free from Harry’s grasp and downs his cup before he can react.

Charlie looks over, concern etched on his face as well. “I think you’ve had enough, Draco.”

“I-” He looks as if he’s going to protest, but suddenly deflates. “You’re right. I apologize.”

“It’s getting late,” Hermione murmurs to Harry while placing a hand on his leg. “Maybe you should take Draco to bed.”

Harry’s head is swimming, and his body feels like an anchor. “I-uh-sure? Where is he sleeping?”

Molly’s completely plastered now, her face almost as red as her hair, but she’s still sober enough to shout out the answer: “Second floor right!” before practically faceplanting on the table. Arthur and Charlie hover over her worringly, but she seems to be fine - just falling asleep.

“Alright.” Harry stands, deposits Lucy into Ion’s outstretched arms, and grabs Draco’s hand. “Let’s go.”

“Uh?” Draco says, somehow still gracefully. When he stands, he’s so wobbly that he just collapses on Harry. “I’m t-i-i-red,” he whines in Harry’s ear. His breath sends shivers sprinting up and down his spine.

“Are you going to be alright going by yourself?” Hermione’s looking at the pair with her brows furrowed. Behind her, Bill and George have gotten into a heated debate with Audrey and Percy over Quidditch, which the latter pair has only recently gotten into.

“Y-e-s?” Without meaning to, Harry’s voice rises at the end as he’s practically grappling with Draco, trying to keep him steady and on his feet. “It’s fine. Goodnight everyone.”

The few who are still cognizant of their surroundings answer back and bid them goodnight, but most don’t even notice as Harry half-drags Draco out the room.

The game of House that the children have been playing seems to be winding down as well - Victoire, the oldest of them all, is reading a bedtime story to the rest, who are laying perfectly still on the floor. Harry can’t tell if they’re playing bedtime, or actually going to bed.

The stairs are the hardest part; all along the way, the blonde alternates between periods of trying to squirm out of Harry’s grasp and becoming a dead weight by relaxing and not moving at all. Somehow, they get into the room and Harry wrestles Draco onto the bed.

The blonde, immediately upon touching the mattress, stops moving and stares up at the ceiling. Somehow in the struggle the top three buttons of his shirt came unbuttoned, and Harry tries not to stare out of respect. “You move fast for a first date, Harry.” Other than a little slurring, he almost sounds completely sober.

“I-uh-wh-?” Harry suddenly realizes what he means as the true gravity of the situation they’re in settles on him. “Oh. _Oh._ Wait-no! I didn-”

Draco laughs and rolls on his side so he can look at Harry full-on. His blonde hair has come out of its usual position and falls on his forehead, over his eyes. “Kidding. You’re so cute when you’re embarrassed.”

Harry feels like a fish, gasping for water.

“You look tired.” Draco spreads his arms. “Come. Sleep with me.”

His feet has a mind of its own. Harry protests, tries to leave the room, but he ends up on the bed and in Draco’s arms anyways. His pale, bare, exposed chest stares at Harry, taunting him.

Harry shifts his body so his hips aren’t aligned with Draco’s.

Draco’s arms are warm. His body is warm. His breath smells like alcohol, but Harry doesn’t mind it as much as he usually would.

Outside, through the window, snow falls.

Harry listens to Draco’s heartbeat. His head rises and falls as the blonde’s chest rises and falls.

“This was an enjoyable Christmas.”

Even drunk, Draco’s language is just as posh as ever.

Before he can stop himself, Harry blurts out, “You should come back sometime.”

Draco’s silent for so long that Harry thinks that he’s fallen asleep. And when he does speak again, it’s only a whisper, “Only if you invite me again.”

Harry wants to reply. Wants to tell him “Of course I’ll invite you again - in fact, I want to invite you every year from now on not only because I want to but also because the Weasleys would probably kill me if I don’t,” but he can’t. Because, before he knows it, he’s asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

Harry Potter wakes up covered in sweat. He tries to use a hand to wipe some of it away from his face, or at least get his matted, greasy hair off his forehead, but his entire right arm has gone numb. In fact, his entire right arm is currently in use. By Draco.

_Draco?!_

The blonde is gripping his arm like a vice, even though he's (presumably) asleep. Small, quiet snores spill from his open mouth. A small spot of nearly-dried drool rests near his head, on the pillow.

He's still wearing clothes, thank goodness, but when Harry looks under the covers, he realizes that _he_ isn't. Which is alarming, to say the least.

After gently prying his arm out of Draco's grasp, Harry sits up and surveys the scene. His jeans are draped on the edge of the bed - which he actually remembers taking off. He scoops them up, gets out of bed, and wiggles them back onto his body. This way, at least, his snitch boxers won't be on full display to Draco and anyone who could walk in at a moment's notice.

He spots his sweater on the other side of the room, hanging off of something. When he pads over and unhooks it, he realizes it was covering a portrait of a man with a monocle and a pointy moustache. He looks miffed at being covered for probably the entire night, but grateful for being uncovered at the same time.

"H-hello." Harry whispers.

"Greetings. It's about time you took that off. It was extremely distasteful to look at. Such a garish color." When he talks, his moustache quivers.

"Er, sorry about that. Listen, did you...notice anything strange last night? I'm afraid I...don't remember much." It's not completely a lie. Harry's fairly certain that his memory is mostly intact, but if he was awake when his sweater was taken off, then maybe he's wrong.

"Well," the man sniffs and purses his lips, "no, unless you count when the other young man woke up and covered me."

"What?" Harry almost forgets to whisper. "Draco did this? Why?"

"However should I know? He arose in the early hours of the morning, looked at me, took your sweater off, and threw it at me. I certainly did nothing to offend."

"...I see. Sorry again about that." Harry moves on.

Outside the window, Harry can see that a fresh layer of snow has fallen overnight. Now, he suspects it almost covers the front door. But it's not snowing now - on the contrary, it seems like a nice day, sunny, with minimal wind. A redbird perches on the window ledge and regards him through the glass, cocking its head.

Outside the room, Harry suddenly hears an avalanche of footsteps and muffled shrieks. Draco groans and nestles further into the covers. It must be present opening time.

With one last look at Draco's prone outline and his mop of messy blonde hair sticking out from the blankets, Harry leaves the room and lets the door click softly shut behind him.

The scene downstairs is....chaotic, to say the least.  
Beneath the Christmas tree are scattered dozens and dozens of presents - big and small and with wrapping paper in every pattern and color imaginable. It's a true testament to the Weasleys' growing wealth that they are able to compile so many gifts each year. Arthur has been promoted multiple times since the War, Molly has begun to sell custom sweaters with impressive commercial success, Bill is a regional manager for Gringotts, Fleur is a model for a popular Wizarding cosmetics company, Charlie and Ion are eking out a good living at the dragon reservation, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes is a smash-hit abroad, Percy is a higher up in the International Magical Office of Law in the Ministry, Audrey is the youngest member on Wizengamot in centuries, Hermione is a leading activist and speaker for nonhuman creature and werewolf rights, Ron is an Auror, and Ginny is the internationally acclaimed Seeker for the Holyhead Harpies. The days in which the Weasley's were known solely for their poverty are over.  
The children are all in various stages of unboxing their treasures - a few have immediately ripped their gift to shreds in an effort to figure out what's inside, and a few are methodically and carefully unwrapping, paying close attention so as not to even crinkle the paper. Lucy is part of the latter crowd.  
She looks up as Harry enters and sits on the couch next to her. "Good morning."  
Harry can't hold back a yawn. "Good morning, Lucy. Who's that one from?"  
She checks the label and reports back, "Grandma."  
"Nice. Think it's going to be a sweater?"  
"I hope so," she says as she begins to peel back the paper. "I hope it's in green this time." Green is her favorite color.  
Harry glances out the window and spots Rose, Hermione, and Ron outside. Rose is playing with her broom again, with her parents trying to spot her. Harry watches as she tumbles from her broom, laughing and smiling while Ron and Hermione hover anxiously.  
At that moment, Ginny walks into the living room still in her pajamas. Luna follows closely behind and stops to admire the Christmas tree and its decorations.  
"Hey," the redhead greets Harry as she plops onto the couch next to him.  
"Good morning to you too."  
It has never stopped being weird for them to be close to each other or interact after the divorce, but it's definitely a Harry-specific problem. Ginny was never truly in love with him - that's what she told him when she filed for divorce. It was understandable, as she was always only into girls, but Harry isn't gay, and he, at least, was in love. So it stung. And it still stings a little bit - even now, all these years later. But being with her as a friend and as a family member causes significantly less anguish for him now than it used to, so he counts that as a win.

"S-o-o...." She begins, her voice drawing out that one vowel for an absurdly long time before she actually starts talking. "How was last night?" When Harry looks over at her, she's wiggling her eyebrows at a pace that he could never hope to mimic. Her voice has entered suggestive territory, and Harry has a growing suspicion about what she's referring to.

But he still feigns ignorance. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Done with inspecting the tree, Luna bounces over and sits on the couch with them. Ginny pulls her into her lap and the two share a tender kiss. Harry looks away.

"Cut the bullshit Harry. You and Draco? Sneaking off?" She playfully digs an elbow into his ribs and he winces.

Rubbing his side, he rolls his eyes. "We didn't sneak off. I went to put him to bed. And we were both too drunk for that, anyways."

Before Ginny can respond, a few more adults straggle in, bleary-eyed and no doubt very hungover: Molly, Arthur, and Fleur. Harry's ambient headache throbs in solidarity with theirs.  

"Good morning my dears," Molly greets them through a yawn as she flops onto her favorite armchair and pulls out some knitting she's working on.

Ginny, Harry, and Luna greet them all back similarly half-heartedly while the children scream and run around their arms waving and their hands gripping their new toys. Lucy's wearing her new sweater - which is, as she hoped, green with a red L emblazoned on the front - and she comes over and assumes her regular position in Harry's lap with her head resting on his shoulder.

"Did anything happen after I left?"

Arthur thinks to himself for a moment. "I don't think so. We put the children to bed soon afterwards, anyways."

Molly smiles and waves a dismissive hand at him. "Oh shush. Not like you would remember if something did happen."

He teases back, "I don't think you have any authority on that, either."

Fleur sighs and combs her fingers through her long blonde hair. Throughout all the years that Harry's known her, he swears that she hasn't aged a day. Especially after signing her modeling contract a few years ago, she seems to grow even more beautiful every year. "Bill woke up in the middle of ze night to throw up."

Ginny winces. "How much did he have?"

Molly shrugs and keeps her eyes focused on her knitting.

The front door opens and Rose runs into with her broom in hand, closely followed by her exhausted and sweaty-looking parents.

Unwinding her scarf, Hermione sounds breathless when she speaks. "Oh, I didn't expect you all to be up so early. Good morning everyone."

There's another round of greetings, and Harry's head aches and throbs.

Hermione and Ron sit on the floor, near Harry's feet. Ron pats his knee. "You alright, mate?"

"Yeah. My head's killing me, though."

"Is Draco still asleep?" The question seems innocuous, but as soon as he mentions Draco, Harry can sense all of the adults in the room perk up with interest.

"Yeah."

Hermione doesn't hesitate to jump up. "Speaking of Draco..."

"Yes," Molly sets her knitting down, "How long have you two been together, Harry? And why didn't you tell us?" Her brows are drawn, her eyes kind.

"Uh, actually, yesterday night was our first date. Of sorts."

"What?!" Ginny's head whips around to look at Harry, outraged. "You call meeting the family a _first date_?"

"I know, I know." In hindsight, it might not have been the smoothest move, but Draco seems to have enjoyed himself regardless, and that's the ultimate goal, right? Maybe Harry is just trying to blindly justify himself.

"Well that aside," Molly continues, "Your Patronus confused us all."

"I agree," Arthur adds, "We weren't sure if you were just...making fun or not."

Harry had sent a Patronus ahead of their arrival, giving them a brief rundown of the situation, and asking them to refrain from potentially inflammatory comments. And a promise to explain once it's all over. But again, in hindsight, maybe he could've explained a little better.

"I'm sorry, I know."

"You owe us an explanation now, though, right?" Ginny looks at him expectantly.

"Okay, okay. Basically, we’ve been hanging out all this week while he’s been teaching his class and he didn’t have any other plans for Christmas so it just...happened. Sorry for not giving you all an earlier notice."

Molly shakes her head. "Don't be sorry about that, dear. We were just concerned because, well, you haven't brought anyone over in a while." _Since the divorce_ , Harry fills in the blank for her.

"But we're happy that you did," Arthur jumps in too, "Draco was...surprisingly good company."

The other nod in agreement. "He's not as bad as he used to be," Ginny muses. "I didn't want to hex him every second he continued talking, for example."

"And he's much better than his father was at his age, that's for sure." Arthur shudders as he seems to think back to his encounters with young Lucius Malfoy.

"His work with music is especially interesting," Hermione adds. Then, her smiles fades and slips off her face until she just looks sad. "Harry. What are you thinking?"

"What do you mean?"

"Getting involved with Draco, I mean."

Suddenly defensive, Harry retorts hotly, "I just want to. You all just said so - he's changed-!"

But Hermione just shakes her head. "That's not what I mean. Are you sure you want to be romantically involved?"

"What?"

"I second that." Ginny turns to face him, and her face is serious.

"I-I'm sure? I don't know what you all are talking about..." Harry trails off. He must be missing something here, or maybe it's the hangover that's messing everything up for him, but he is completely at a loss.

Hermione doesn't seem reassured. "Well, if you're sure...and serious."

"We don't want you to get hurt. Or, actually, we don't want _him_ to get hurt." Ginny adds while braiding Luna's hair.

"What? Why would I h-"

Footsteps sound from the stairs, and moments later, Draco appears in the doorway. He's still wearing the same clothes from last night, but the buttons are all done up now, the wrinkles from sleeping in them are gone, and his hair is once again styled in an elegant blonde swoop. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and Harry can't take his eyes off the skin it exposes - and the Dark Mark that remains there, unfaded and as ominous as ever.

"Good morning ever-" But before he can finish, the children flock to him en masse, clamoring for his attention.

"Uncle Draco, come play with us!" "Can we go flying, Uncle Draco?" "Come look at this, Uncle Draco!"

Although he's almost literally being pulled in five separate directions, Draco maintains a smile as he tries to fulfill all of their requests at once.

Harry doesn't know how he does it.

"I don't know how you do it, Draco," Fleur says breezily. She stands up and walks to the kitchen. "I'll just go and make some tea."

"Thank you, dear!" Molly calls out without taking her eyes off of what looks like a pair of mittens slowly forming under her skilled hands.

There's a brief lull in their conversation as everyone watches Draco and the kids interact. Like he's a new toy himself, the children are obsessed with him, asking him to play, to watch, to speak.

In the middle of what seems to be a continuation of their game of "House" from last night, Draco stops to examine a pile of untouched packages in the corner.

"Harry."

"Yeah?"

"These are for you." Using his wand, he levitates a good majority of the pile over to him.

That's right, Harry gets presents during Christmas as well. He was so caught up in his hangover and in explaining his situation with Draco to the Weasleys that he'd forgotten.

The first gift he opens is from Molly, and it's one of her traditional sweaters. He must have about a dozen of them by now, all with different designs. This one is navy blue with a white letter 'H' on the front and a white silhouette of a stag on the back. "Thank you, Molly. This is amazing."

She beams at him and replies, "Of course, dear. I hope it keeps you warm."

The next gift is a bumpy package from Hermione. After a confused look at her, to which she meets with a mysterious shrug, he opens it. It's several tubes of paint and a bundle of paintbrushes.

"I've heard that painting is a good coping mechanism," she explains briefly. She doesn't need to say anything more. Everyone knows the kind of coping she’s talking about.

"Thank you." Harry doesn't think he'll ever use it.

The third present is from Ron, and it’s a polished wooden box with the words 'Copy Quill' printed in golden letters on the front. Harry lifts the lid and finds a - shocker - quill inside.

"It's the newest one, and I thought it would help the paperwork go faster."

He's right. Since most of Harry's job is just copying the same information on thousands and thousands different forms, the Copy Quill - which he's been eyeing himself for a few months now - will make it far less depressing. "Thank you - hopefully this will shut Robards up about 'efficiency' for a while." He tries to joke, but it comes out half-hearted. The gift only reminds him that he has to go back to the Ministry, to his small desk and his small cubicle tomorrow.

The fourth and final present seems to be a joint one from Ginny and Luna. It comes in a small box with yellow stars hand-painted on the outside; inside, it’s a smooth gray rock with flecks of white.

Luna explains. “I found it at the bottom of a lake during a hiking trip. Touch it.”

Intrigued, Harry obeys. As soon as his fingers make contact with the unassuming little rock, he’s reminded of happy moments in his life - looking out the window of the Hogwarts Express and admiring the view of the countryside, late night study sessions with Ron and Hermione, kissing Ginny after they were married, holding Rose for the first time, taking Teddy to a Muggle amusement park, ice skating with Draco…

The memories don’t linger, but the sense of ease and warmth they bring him do.

“Thank you. I can’t believe you found this.”

“Keep it under your pillow,” she instructs him, “and the nightmares will not reach you.”

He pockets the stone gratefully, and it sits on his thigh with a comfortable weight.

As he sets aside his other gifts, Harry suddenly remembers that he both forgot to open Hagrid's present and to give Draco his. He takes his wand out and summons both, and the two packages come zooming obediently down the stairs and around the corner. They must have somehow made their way to the bedroom without Harry noticing. Or maybe he carried them up there without remembering.

"Draco, catch."

The blonde turns around and only has a split-second's notice to prevent the package from smacking him full in the face, but he does it - barely. "Merlin, Harry. What is this?"

"My present to you."

"Wha-" He stops and stares at the unassuming, unmarked package. "You didn't have to. I didn't get anything for you."

"That's okay. I just happened to see it while I was out." That's a lie. Harry racked his brain to think of a suitable present for hours and made a special trip to Hogsmeade yesterday morning to acquire it.

"I-thank you." Draco flashes Harry an uneasy smile before he tears back the wrapping in quick, efficient strokes. Harry follows suit with his own present from Hagrid. He thinks it’s a snitch at first, but when it swings open on its hidden hinge Harry realizes it’s a pocket watch enchanted to vibrate gently at times that Harry can customize. From its accompanying note, Harry learns that Hagrid bought it for him in France while visiting his now-fiancee.

Harry looks over at Draco, heart pounding. The blonde doesn't speak for a little bit, too occupied with turning the gift over and over in his hands, inspecting every square inch of it. In the background, Harry barely registers Fleur coming back from the kitchen with a steaming pot of tea and a collection of cups. He's only focused on Draco, on his hands, on his face, on the way he's biting his lips.

"Where did you get this?" He finally speaks, his voice a little husky - maybe from sleep.

"Ursa's Ultimate Collection of Unusual Artifacts." Harry adds in the silence of non-recognition afterwards, "It's in Hogsmeade."

"I know. I've been there. But I never knew they had _this_."

Hermione's attention refocuses on them after she thanks Fleur for the tea. "What is it?”

He holds it up; it’s an unmarked notebook, and Harry knows that the inside is blank too, but it’s the function that makes it so unique.

"The new Enchanted Scorebook. I've been trying to get it for months." He starts thumbing through, his face full of awe. Harry likes the look on him. "It will mark notes while I play, and even give me suggestions when I'm composing. It's a must-have for the musical-magical community."

"That's sounds incredible!" Hermione looks at Harry. "How did you know about it?"

Draco snaps the book shut and leans forward with interest. "Yes, how did you know? It's such a niche object - and rare too, due to the complicated spellwork done on it. To think it was just under my nose the whole time I was at Hogwarts..."

Harry blushes, feeling a bit awkward now with the attention focused on him. Not everyone in the room is paying attention to their conversation, so it's really just the attention of Draco and Hermione, but the two are a formidable combo to face. "Er, I asked around? I knew I wanted something music-related, so I just went to every shop and asked. The storekeep at Ursa's hadn't been able to sell that for months, so she was pretty relieved when I came in."

"Incredible. Thank you, Harry. Without you, Merlin knows how long it would have taken me to find another copy."

Hermione pipes up, looking at Draco, "Are you active? In the musical-magical community, I mean."

He seems startled at her question. "Yes? To an extent. I am in touch with a few key members, and I attend their monthly socials every now and then - I'm part of their association, the Magicians for Muggle Music Movement," he pauses and clears his throat, "but with a disguise, of course."

"I understand," Hermione says, nodding her head in empathy. Harry feels similarly - although he and Hermione need to don disguises for reasons other than Draco's, they're all under the same risk of public scrutiny.

"But they're nice people," Draco adds thoughtfully, "Many of them have expressed interest in my research - not that I told them about it, but I’ve proposed the hypothetical to them."

"Oh, I'm sure. I think that even the Ministry would be very impressed with the idea." Hermione leans forward. "I've heard rumors for years now that they're trying to expand the Ministry's Magical Research department. They're just rumors, but I think that they have a lot of truth in them. In comparison to Ministries globally, Great Britain's is near the bottom - research-wise, at least. But don't tell Arthur, and especially not Percy, that I told you this. I heard it from Ron."

Harry also vaguely remembers Ron talking to him about it too, but as Harry didn't really give a shit whether or not the Ministry of Magic's research department matched up to others, he wasn't really listening.

Draco, in the face of all this information, simply raises an eyebrow. "That's very...interesting. And the secret is safe with me, I assure you."  
Something sounds in the kitchen - a cross between a bell and a horn - and Molly scrambles to her feet, placing her knitting gently on the table. "Breakfast's ready!" She shouts, loud enough to reach the upper floors. Harry swears he hears a distant thump from some bedroom somewhere in the house.  
"That must be Bill," Fleur says while staring at the ceiling before following Molly into the kitchen.  
The kids, with some coaxing by Arthur, leave the living room - new toys still in hand. Harry looks at Lucy, who has been walking her new stuffed hippogriff up and down his arm, shoulders, neck, and head for the past few minutes. "Breakfast?"  
She nods, hops off his lap, and follows her gang of noisy cousins into the kitchen. Hermione and Ron stand and Ron looks back on them before going through the archway. "You two coming?"  
Draco rises to his feet and puts on his coat. "I'm afraid not, I must go the club for some last minute rehearsals."  
"Oh! That's right," Ron gently hits his palm to his forehead, "That was tonight."  
"Are you still planning on coming?"  
"I think so. Harry, you're going, right?"  
"Wh-I-er-" Draco's staring at him, but his look is level, calm, and otherwise unreadable. "Yeah?"  
"Excellent," the blonde's response comes without any hesitation or pause as he winds his scarf around his pale neck. "I will see you all there tonight at seven." He reaches into his breast pocket, pulls out a neatly folded square of paper, and presses it into Harry's hand. "That's the address. And Merry Christmas."  
But before either Harry or Ron can react, Draco adds, looking Harry up and down, "Oh, and you may need to lose the Muggle blue jeans before tonight, Harry."  
And with that, without even waiting for a reaction, Draco leaves them, walks into the kitchen and says his goodbyes there, and glides out the front door with his trunks floating along behind him. The 'pop' of Apparition sounds moments later, and he's gone.   
Harry unfolds the paper he left him, and scrawled inside is indeed the address of the Amber Tap. He refolds it and stuffs it into his jean pocket.   
"You alright, mate?" Ron inquires, placing a hand on Harry's back.  
"Uh?" Harry's head jerks up, startled by the question. "Y-yeah. I'm fine. But how come I can't wear jeans? They're comfortable!"  
Ron just smiles and shakes his head, "This is just like when Hermione snips at me for wearing trainers with dress robes, even though no one can see them. Sometimes, in a relationship, you just have to learn to compromise."  
"But we're not-"  
The look on Ron's face shuts Harry up quickly.  
"Let's just go eat."  
"Fine," Harry whines, but his cheeks are red.   
  
Hours of light banter with Ginny, Luna, Hermione, and Ron and impromptu and highly unorganized flying lessons later, Harry's trying to get ready for Draco's performance. Keyword: trying.  
"No, no, no," Ginny snatches the pair of trousers from his hands and thrusts what looks to Harry to be an identical pair into his arms to replace it, "These are much better."  
"What were so wrong with those?!" Harry protests.  
Hermione, who is seated on the bed a little ways off, laughs and shakes her head. "I have to agree with Ginny on this one."  
"Those were baggy."  
"So?!"  
Ginny sighs and rolls her eyes, "Sometimes I swear _I_ was the one who grow up with Muggles. Baggy dress pants means they don't fit right! That's a basic rule of Muggle formal wear! Plus the color was all wrong."

Looks alone, it _does_ look like she was the one who was raised by Muggles. Ginny’s ready already - dressed in a full black tuxedo with a blue-green - or “turquoise” as Ginny would call it - vest and a matching bowtie while sporting an impressive, slicked back mane of red hair. Her date for the night, Luna, is adhering to a couple-coordinated color scheme; she’s currently seated at the window seat and looking out the window in a form-hugging blue-green (turquoise!) dress with her long blonde hair styled in a high ponytail.   
“Okay, okay, fine.” Harry, who has just been standing in his boxers, pulls on the trousers she forced onto him. It feel surprisingly good on his body - no extra fabric around his crotch or ankles.

“See?”

“...Fine,” Harry concedes, however unwillingly.

Hermione stands up and heads for the door. She’s dressed already as well, in a velvet-looking black dress that goes down to her knees, but has a diamond cutout on her chest. “I’m going to check on Ron.”

The door closes behind her, and it's just Harry, Ginny, and Luna in the bedroom now. It's past six now, and the sun has long set, but Luna is still looking out the window, into the darkness.

"Now pick a color."

"What?"

Ginny holds up a black tie - possibly the one remaining one of his that isn't horribly wrinkled from being tossed lazily onto the ground after the Ministry events Hermione and Ron still force him to attend.

"But...it's black."

"We're wizards, you know."

"Right. I don't know...green?"

She gives him a look. "Of course." With a tap of her wand, the fabric turns the exact shade of green that he had in mind - Slytherin green. She tosses it to him, and he catches it gingerly and begins to tie it.

Now that her job of preventing Harry from making grievous fashion choices is done, Ginny walks over and joins Luna on the window seat. She gives her a quick peck, leans her head on her shoulder, and asks, "What are you looking at, love?"

"The moon." Luna points.

"It's full tonight."

She nods and muses. "A night of promise and excitement."

Ginny kisses her again, holding it a little longer this time. "I love you." It's a whisper, clearly only meant for Luna to hear, but Harry can't help but to catch it anyways. Tugging on his tie and needlessly adjusting it, he pretends to be too preoccupied to hear.

At that moment, the door opens and Hermione and Ron step in. Ron's dressed in a black suit and a red bowtie, and a white, folded pocket square is poking out of his breast pocket.

"Are we ready?" Hermione asks. She's added a black and white striped shawl to her look, and she tosses it over her shoulder.

"You look good, Hermione," Luna says as she and Ginny stand and walk over. The two share a hug.

"Thank you! You two look stunning, as always."

Ron pats Harry on the shoulder. "You look good too, mate. Draco's going to be impressed."

"Wait-" Ginny reaches up and runs her hand wildly through his hair. "Now he is."

"What was that for? I spent an hour trying to get it kind of flat."

Grinning, Ginny winks at him. "Trust me, you look better like that."

"She’s right," Hermione jumps in, scrutinizing his look. "You don't look half bad like that. Especially with the suit."

"Just trust me." Ginny pats his back. "Let's get Mom and Dad and go, or we'll be late."

And they do just that. In the end, Molly and Arthur are the only ones outside of their group of friends who are going tonight - the rest of the Weasleys are either too tired from last night or already gone - like Charlie and Ion, whose trip back was rescheduled to today due to an incident at the reservation that required their immediate attention.   
Following the address written for Harry, the group find a nearby apparition point and walk the rest of the way to the club. The street it's located on - Ravel Avenue - seems to be a hub for music clubs of all kinds - jazz, blues, and some others that Harry doesn't recognize or remember ever hearing about. It's a niche place for sure, and most likely even more so for the Wizarding community. Harry wonders how Draco learned about it.  
The Amber Tap is a modest brick building wedged between two other, larger clubs. It seems less assuming than the other clubs on the street, but it's the only one with a line poking out the door. From inside, Harry can see blue and purple light strobing gently and hear subdued conversation. No music, but Harry supposes they're waiting for the actual live music to start.  
It's cold, but the group lines up behind the Muggles, who are chatting lively about everything - from the weather (cold and snowy) to what they did for Christmas to the performance they're about to watch.  
While Ginny, Luna, Hermione, Ron, Molly, and Arthur contribute to that chatter and try to pass off as Muggles, Harry nods along and listens in on the Muggles' conversations. He perks up when they mention Draco.  
"Oh, I'm so excited for this! I've heard so many good things from all of my friends - Yi-Chen and Jenn and Peter, do you know them? Well anyways, all they ever do when I ask them about the Amber Tap is rave on and on about the pianist, Draco Malfoy."  
"I try to come most nights that he's here, and I know that he has something special planned tonight. I couldn't make it to the one last Christmas, but I heard it was incredible - he even started planning with his elbows at one point!"  
"Wow! I've never heard of anyone doing that before! So you've seen him play?"  
"Yes, and he's just as amazing as your friends probably said. And nice too - I met with him once backstage, got his autograph, and talked for a bit. He's a good bloke, I think. Humble, too."  
"Really? That's really rare these days, I think. Humble talent? Such an unappreciated virtue, in my opinion."  
"I completely agree-oh, after you." The two people Harry has been eavesdropping on reach the door at this point, wave at the man posted there who Harry assumes is the bouncer, and walk in.

“It’s us now,” Hermione whispers, interrupting the group’s current conversation about their limited knowledge of music.

One-by-one, they file into the club. Harry's excited, but a little anxious - and his hands can't stop shaking. He doesn't know what to expect, not only because he has never been in a Muggle jazz club before, but also because he simply hasn't been in any sort of club in years.

But the inside isn't too stimulating. The ceiling lights strobe the blue and purple that he saw spilling outside just moments before, there are small round tables placed here and there on the main floor, a bar runs along the far side, and the stage is front and center - but only raised a foot or two off the floor. A whole crowd of Muggles are seated already, and they contribute to the light, ambient conversation and gentle clinking of glasses.

"Shall we sit here?" Arthur asks the group, his hand resting on the chair back. It's one of the tables farthest from the stage, but seeing as the group didn't think to get here early like everyone else, they will have to settle. Once seated, Harry is tasked with getting drinks.

Only a few people are seated at the bar, to Harry's surprise. The bartender, a young, fresh-faced woman dressed in a flowy blouse and a white hijab greets him as he walks up.

"What will it be, sir?" Her eyes reflect the blue and purple rays of light bouncing all over the place.

Harry gives her the list of drink requests from the group, and she wastes no time in making them. As she does so, Harry doesn't try to strike up a conversation. He's too nervous - opting instead to rubbing his hands and staring at the stage, which is completely empty.

"-ir? Sir?"

Harry whips his head back around. She's done, and the drinks are lined up on the bar.

"Will that be cash or credit?"

"Can I...uh...open a tab?"

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Certainly."

Harry gives her his information - he has long chosen to carry around at least one Muggle credit card in case of situations such as these. Granted, opening a tab at the jazz club that Draco works at has happened precisely once in his life, and otherwise he hasn't really had much use for the card, but the paranoia of being caught without money is a persistent one of his. He suspects it has something to do with never having an allowance from the Dursley's, but Harry tries to never linger too long on that train of thought.

"Is it your first time here?" She asks conversationally while punching his information into the computer.

"Yeah."

"You came on a really good night then - Draco, our performer tonight, is a real fan favorite."

"Yeah, he actually invited me. Us." Harry winces a little at his mistake.

The woman drops his credit card and disappears under the bar, scrambling to find it again. She pops back up within a few seconds, and a lock of hair has escaped from her hijab. While tucking it back under the fabric, she asks Harry, wide-eyed, "You know him? Personally? Do you work at the orphanage?"

"Yes. And no?"

"Wow." She takes a deep breath and then sticks her hand out. "Ava, sorry I forgot to introduce myself earlier. I'm his coworker here."

Harry takes her hand and shakes it, gripping it firmly. "Harry. We're friends from school."

"That's...so surprising. He never brings friends around here. In fact, I think you're the first that I've known about." She looks past Harry, into the crowd, and points at a woman across the room with black hair down to her waist and a smart blazer and slacks set on. She's chatting amiably with an old white couple. "That's Belle. She's the owner of the place. And we always joke that we're the only friends that he has, but I'm pretty happy that's not true." She chuckles at that and shakes her head while she wipes down the counter.

Harry knows that the show will start soon. And he knows that his friends and family are waiting on their drinks. But he still takes a seat at the bar, promising himself that he won't stay too long.  
"Really? He's never brought anyone here? Never mentioned anyone?" _Not even his Slytherin friends?_  
Ava grins sympathetically at him. "Yep, sorry, but he's never mentioned any Harrys either. Sometimes he talks about his Mum, but that's only after either me or Belle ask after her. But she’s never come to his shows - not as far as I know."  
Desperation creeps up on Harry, but he doesn't quite know why. "But you two are his friends, right?"  
The question seems to trouble her a little; her smile turns a little painful, and she shuffles from foot to foot as she polishes some dirty glasses. "Well...I like to think so, but truth be told I think it's one-sided. The man rarely even agrees to stick around for a drink after closing time. Belle and I - I think we've tried our best."  
Harry feels a sudden rush of empathy for her, but also for Draco. More often than not now, Harry also finds himself choosing to rush home instead of spending time with his loved ones. "He can be stubborn, but I promise he's a good guy."  
Ava opens her mouth as if to respond to that, closes it, but then opens it again after a moment of hesitation. "Sorry - I don't mean to presume, and I know that Belle and I hate when people do that - but are you two...together?"  
An instant blush - however that's possible, Harry doesn't know - fills his cheeks with warmth. "Well." What should he even say? Will whatever he says next get to Draco somehow? Does Draco want them to be friends? Something more?  
But right as he hesitates, his mind races, the house lights dim. "Oh! It's starting," Ava passes Harry the drinks. "You should go sit. We can talk afterwards."  
She doesn't need to tell Harry twice - he manages to somehow balance all the drinks in his arms and moves back across the room.  
"What took you so long?" Ginny whispers to him as he slides into his chair and turns it to face the stage.  
He whispers back, "Talked to the bartender." She cranes her head to look over, spots Ava, and lets out a low whistle.  
"I don't blame you, then," She says as he winks and takes a sip of her drink.  
Harry rolls his eyes. She's right that Ava is extremely attractive - sporting a somehow aristocratic and commanding face - but if Ginny knew the real reason he was talking to her, he would never hear the end of it.  
The crowd is quiet now, and expectant. Hermione reaches over and squeezes Harry's hand, but when he looks back at her, his face questioning, she avoids his gaze and trains her eyes instead on the stage.

Suddenly, a spotlight opens center stage, and sound of squeaky wheels follows shortly afterwards.   
"Are they bringing the piano out?" Arthur asks, clearly directing his attempt at a whisper toward Molly, but he's loud enough that everyone at their table and probably the ones once over hear him clearly.  
A white piano rolls into view in the next second, answering his question. Size-wise, it's bigger than the one Draco plays at the orphanage and even the one at Andromeda’s place - longer, mostly.  
Once it's secured in place, directly under the spotlight, the same stagehand who pushed the piano it completely on his own goes back offstage and proceeds to to add a piano bench to join it. Next, with one fluid motion, he opens the top and props it up with a thin stick. Harry's amazed it doesn't break as soon as he takes his hands off. Finally, his job done, he leaves the stage the opposite way he came, and the stage is empty again, save for the new piano and bench combo.  
The piano is beautiful, too. Even from the back, Harry can tell how shiny the paint is, how easily it reflects the spotlight. Even the bench is nice. Harry vaguely remembers the one from the orphanage being a flat wooden one with chipping black paint, but this one looks more comfortable - the seat itself seems to be a cushion rather than just pure wood.   
Footsteps. The distinct sound of dress shoes on a hollow wooden platform is all the audience needs to being clapping - and cheering! Draco hasn't played a single note yet, hasn't even appeared on the stage, and the audience is already practically on the verge of a standing ovation.   
And when Draco does finally appear on the stage, striding across with his powerful, long legs - seemingly elongated by the elevation of the stage - the crowd goes wild. Cheers, hearty claps, and indeed, some standing already.   
He's wearing a green suit - Slytherin green - but it's completely covered in sequins . The light reflected off of him makes Harry squint through his glasses a little. His hair isn't slicked back - in fact, it hangs in his eyes and frames his face, making him seem younger.   
He stops at the piano, places a hand on the side, and bows deeply to the audience. The audience reacts to this by screaming even louder. Draco picks up a microphone that Harry didn't notice was placed strategically on the piano and begins speaking. "How are you all doing tonight?" Somehow, his voice is deeper, huskier than normal.  
The audience responds to him with vigor, quite a few of them shouting out "Great!" "Well!" or even just letting out a long, high whistle.   
After they settle down, Draco speaks again. "So happy to hear that. Have good Christmases and holidays, everyone?"   
A similar reaction from the audience.  
"I'm glad most of you are doing well. And for those of you who aren't having a good holiday season, just know that it's not over yet. My performance can still salvage it." His smile curls up, his voice turning a little cheeky at the end, but it only elicits more cheers. "Thank you for having me, and I hope you have a good time tonight."  
And with that, Draco carefully sets the microphone on the piano and sits on the bench. His hands are piled in his lap and his eyes are closed.

The entire club waits with bated breath. Even Harry finds that he's unwittingly holding his breath in anticipation. Hermione gives his hand a little squeeze.  
And he begins.  
To be perfectly honest, Harry doesn't understand music that much.  
Draco’s explanation of some of the theory is interesting - but not really because of the subject matter itself. Harry has never been particularly musically inclined, anyways. In fact, he's never really had a favorite singer or band in his life. He rarely even listens to music at all. When he met up with Dudley a few years ago, just to catch up and make amends, his cousin offered to buy him a popular Muggle music player - out of guilt or whatever else, Harry doesn't know - but Harry ultimately turned him down and the two ended up just grabbing lunch at a pricey Muggle restaurant. He wouldn't have any use for it, and he didn't foresee ever finding a use for it. Ginny mostly likes the mainstream Wizard artists, and she used to play them in the house all the time when they were married, but Harry got used to tuning them all out.  
But this is different. Music with words already bores him, so music without words is usually his go-to insomnia cure, but Harry can't take his eyes off of Draco. Definitely for self-serving reasons, but in the process of being glued to Draco's every move, every changing expression, Harry is really taking in the music for the first time.

And he wishes he had done so earlier in his life. Draco plays piece after piece - some bright and bubbly and some frantic and fast - but Harry doesn't recognize any of them. He leans over to Arthur and asks him at the end of one of the pieces, while everyone's clapping, but he just shakes his head and shrugs in response. Even Arthur, the infamous Mugglephile and jazz-lover, doesn't know. Harry settles back in his seat, slightly disappointed at himself. He should've asked Draco when he got the chance - and he’d gotten it often in the past week that they've been at Hogwarts.

The rest of Draco's audience doesn't seem to be facing the same problems that Harry is. They clap, snap, stomp their feet, and even sing along to the pieces - their joyful faces illuminated by the spotlight, by the light reflecting off of Draco's sequined suit. Most of them know every single word by heart. They go especially wild when Draco plays jazzy renditions of what Harry vaguely knows are popular Muggle Christmas songs. But the small group of wizards and witches in the back just sit in silence, opting instead to watch and witness Muggle culture.

After one last song that Draco finishes with a series of extremely quick notes, played by - to Harry's astonishment - only two fingers, Draco stands up with a flourish, bows, and exits the stage to thunderous applause. The lights come up and chatter resumes in the club, but few people actually leave.

"I think it's intermission," Hermione explains to the group, "He'll come back in fifteen or so minutes."

Arthur, Molly, Ginny, and Luna end up going to use the restroom while Ron gets more drinks for them. When it's just Harry and Hermione at the table, a tall woman approaches their table.

"Good evening. How are you two doing tonight?" Harry recognizes her as Belle, the owner of the club.

"We're doing well. It's my first time hearing Draco perform, and I'm pleasantly surprised so far." Hermione stands up and the two women exchange a handshake.

"Excellent. And you?" Belle turns her attention onto Harry, her dark eyes glittering much like Ava's had been.

"Er, it's not my first time hearing him perform. But his playing is still impressive."

"So you've been here before?"

"No, I-uh. It's my first time here."

If she's surprised, she doesn't show it. All she does is lean forward a little bit more from her position behind Luna's empty chair, which is directly opposite of Harry's and Hermione's. "Oh? Do you know Draco personally, then?"

"Yes?"

"I see." She moves closer and extends her hand to him; when he takes it and shakes, he feels its softness and the smooth golden rings on her fingers. "I'm Belle, his boss."

"Oh!" Hermione almost chokes on her glass of water. "Are you-?"

"The owner of The Amber Tap, yes," She confirms, gesturing at the entire club with a big sweeping motion of her arm. "The best, most authentic jazz club with the best, most authentic jazz players in London."

Harry and Hermione try not to snort at that. Jazz is a Muggle genre invented by African Americans. Draco is the purest a pureblood wizard can be and a white, British man to boot.

“How do you two know Draco, then?” She glances at the empty glasses all around the rest of the table. “And the rest of your party?”

If what Ava said about Draco’s behavior working at the club is true, then Harry doesn’t blame either hers or Belle’s curiosity. Draco has always been mysterious in his motives and thoughts, and he still is, but Harry thinks that he’s slowly coming to understand him.

“We’re friends from school,” Hermione explains to her brightly. “The rest of the group are three other of his peers and my in-laws.”

“School? Do you mean the private one that he speaks of occasionally?”

“The very one.”

“Goodness. You all have been friends for quite some time, then.”

 _Technically, we’ve only been on friendly terms for a week,_ Harry thinks wryly to himself. Hermione has been on friendly terms with him for an even shorter period of time - since last night, essentially. But aloud, he only says, “Yeah, but it doesn’t feel that way.”

"I'm back-oh," Ron stops when he sees Belle hovering over their table. In his arms are their drinks.

Belle immediately moves away and gestures toward their table, her smile gracious. "Oh please, go ahead."

Hesitantly, he agrees, setting the drinks down and taking his seat. In the distance, Harry notices that the rest of their group have emerged from the restrooms. Belle follows his gaze and understands.

"The show is almost starting again, I think," she says, checking the slim gold watch on her wrist, "Hopefully I will have a chance to better make your acquaintances afterwards - if you're staying to meet with Draco, that is."

"Of course we will," Hermione assures her. "Thank you for coming over."

Belle doesn't respond to that, but merely smiles slow and wide before turning on her heel and gliding away.

As soon as Arthur, Ginny, Luna, and Molly rejoin them, the house lights dim again and cues the crowd into silence. Moments later, Draco walks out again, still in his suit, his hair still wild and covering most of his forehead. The crowd cheers him on, he bows deeply, and picks back up the microphone.

"Welcome back."

Cheers.

Harry would think that stage lights would make Draco look even paler, more gaunt, but it's doing quite the opposite. The light gives him a healthy glow; it dances on his high, prominent cheekbones, slides down the bridge of his nose, and graces the hint of collarbone peeking out of the window formed by the unbuttoned top buttons of his black collared shirt underneath his suit jacket. When Draco beams at the ocean of faces - his audience - he almost literally glows. It could be a subtle magical effect, and Harry doesn't doubt that it's well within Draco's magical capabilities, but Harry doubts it for some reason. It seems real. Natural. Harry can't explain it.

"I hope the first half has been as fun for you all as it has been for me."

More cheers, louder this time.

"For this next half, I want to do something a little bit different."

No cheers. The audience is eating up his dramatic pause, waiting for him to open his mouth again and continue.

"I've never shared my own music before, but-" Draco has to stop talking because the cheers of the crowd suddenly overwhelm his voice, even with the microphone. Once they calm down a little bit, he continues. "I want to share some of my compositions with you all tonight, for this last half. If that's alright with you."

Another round of cheers come, and Harry swears passerbys outside the walls can l hear the thunderous applause.

"Thank you for your enthusiasm. Please relax and I hope you enjoy the rest of the show." His little speech down, he takes a seat and begins to play.

The second half of the performance is noticeably different from the first. While even a musical novice like Harry could tell that the first half was mostly mainstream music - crowd pleasers - the second half is composed of stranger sounds. It still sounds like jazz: it still has the flashy parts and it still makes Harry want to sway and tap his foot, but the sounds are...different. In a a good way. It's like the notes are heavier than usual, like sponges filled with water.

And it feels different too. Some pieces leave Harry feeling warm, some give him shivers. When Harry glances at the others seated at his table - Ginny, Luna, Molly, Arthur, Hermione, Ron - they all have the same, surprised but pleased expression.

But the Muggles in the club don't seem confused at all. They nod and rock and tap their foot just like they did in the first half, and if Harry were just judging from their reactions, he would think that nothing had changed at all. But something had.

"Harry," Hermione whispers, leaning close to him to that her mouth is close to his ear. "Do you feel it too?"

Harry gives her a quick nod in response.

"I think this is what Draco's research might be about. I think there's something...magical here."

Harry whips his head back around to look at Draco. The blonde is still playing, with what seems to be a slight smile on his face. But there's nothing to indicate that he's casting a spell.

He whispers back at Hermione, "What do you mean?" Arthur glances at them and raises an eyebrow.

"His songs. They must follow his findings in his research. And they must have some kind of magical effect on people."

"But it's not a bad effect, right?" It doesn't seem to be, at least. Harry feels pretty good at the moment - but not in an addicting, enchanted way that makes him want to listen to the music forever or something like that. No, it feels gentle and non-malicious - like a blanket warmed by a loved one's body heat, or a spot on the rug close to the fire.

"No. At least I don't think so."

They don't say much more, and just resume looking and listening on as Draco plays into the night.

The final piece is sad. Harry doesn't know how jazz can be sad, (he thought that was what Blues were) but Draco pulls it off. The piece still makes everyone want to sway and dance, but the notes follow one after the other glumly, wistfully, yearning for the ones that have already been played.

When Draco finishes it and the concert at large, the crowd doesn't hesitate to collectively shoot to its feet, the hands of every shape, size, and color creating a wave of sound, of clapping, to meet Draco as he stands and bows. There's a big smile on his face and Harry catches a little sparkle falling from his hair. For a moment, he wonders how a sequin got in his hair, but then Harry realizes it was a bead of sweat. Several beads, in fact. But Draco's still smiling, still laughing, still graciously accepting the enormous bouquet of flowers that Belle presents him. Harry suddenly feels self-conscious that he didn't think to bring anything too.

"I hope you all had a good time tonight," Draco says into the microphone, trying to hold it in a way that the flowers of the bouquet don't end up tangled in it. "The bar will close in half an hour, and the club an hour, so please stay with us for a little bit more. And Happy Holidays." And with that, Draco walks off the stage, followed close behind by Belle, the spotlight dims, and the house lights come back out with bright ferocity.

Chatter in the club resumes immediately as people get out of their seats to get drinks or to approach the side of the stage and try to meet with Draco when he leaves or to gather their belongings and leave for the night. Harry looks around at the other people seated at his table.

Molly is the first to speak. "My. He's certainly as good as they all say he is."

Arthur seems to be at a complete loss for words, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly but not a sound escaping it.

His wife puts on her coat and fiddles with the collar. "I think Arthur and I will head back to the Burrow. Are you kids staying?"

The "kids" look around at each other. "I think I want to stay a little while longer," Ginny voices her opinion. Luna, seated beside her, nods in agreement.

"Me too. We should try to meet up with Draco and congratulate him, at least." Hermione thinks for a minute and exclaims, "Oh! We didn't bring flowers."

Ron smiles at her. "Hermione. We're wizards."

They laugh and Harry finds himself joining in. Even after all these years entrenched in the Wizarding community and in magic, both Harry and Hermione find themselves forgetting it all for a moment.

After Hermione secretly uses her wand and summons an impressive bunch of flowers, she gives them to Harry. "Bring those up to him."

"But-"

"Go! Look, he's coming out now." She points and Harry follows her finger to see just that: Draco leaving through a door on the side of the stage. A crowd immediately coalesces around him, clambering for his attention and autograph.

Harry waves goodbye to Molly and Arthur and proceeds to lead the remaining group to meet up with Draco. Something akin to a line has formed, directed by what seems to be the same person who rolled the piano onto the stage, and Harry and the rest of his friends stand in the very back.

Draco isn't wearing the sequined suit anymore, and has donned a green velvet one instead. It's just as gaudy and loud, in Harry's opinion, but infuriatingly enough, Draco pulls it off well. Paired with the messy blonde hair, Draco looks...good. Unfairly and effortlessly sexy.

And even though he must be tired from the straight two hours that he's been performing, he still doesn't lose his composure in the face of everyone begging for his attention. He gives them what they want - picture, autograph, hug - without ever letting the smile slip from his face.

Finally, the crowd thins out and the line shortens and Harry can finally see him up close.

"Congratulations," he tells him, presenting Draco with Hermione's bouquet. It's well put together and beautiful - spiky leaves paired with blooming flowers of every warm color: reds, oranges, yellows.

The two make eye contact and hold it all while Draco takes the flowers from him and hold them close to his chest. Their fingers touch briefly in the exchange, and it sends shivers through Harry's body. He can sense the others behind him, watching his every move and analyzing their interaction.

"Thank you. I take it you enjoyed it?"

Draco's eyes are so dark. His blonde hair too - maybe it's the lighting, but it seems less platinum like it normally is, and more like a dirty blonde. His narrow nose, his sensuous pink lips, his slightly pointed chin; everything seems...different up close. But maybe it's just the alcohol talking.

Harry swallows thickly, and when he speaks his voice comes out a little raspy. "Yes. I loved it." The "love" in the word "loved" almost gets stuck in his throat.

A hand comes down on Harry's shoulder. It's Ron. "It was really awesome, Draco."

"I agree! I never knew jazz could be so uplifting," Hermione enthuses while coming around Harry's other side.

Ginny walks up and gives him two thumbs up. "Yeah, it was really good."

Luna follows close behind. "Your suit, as well."

Draco laughs a little at that. He looks so pretty, holding the bouquet up against his green suit. "Thank you. Thank you all for coming. Sincerely."

At that moment, Belle walks out of the door and nearly runs into Draco.

“Oh! I’m terribly sorry, dear Draco-oh.” She spots all of them. “Hello, everyone.”

“Belle,” Draco begins to introduce her to them, “these are-”

“Your friends, I heard?”

“How-?”

“I talked with this young gentleman and this lovely lady during intermission,” she says, gesturing to Harry and Hermione - not with a point of a finger, but with a wave of her hand.

“Ah, I see. Well as for the rest of them,” he points to each person as he says their name, “this is Ginerva Weasley, Luna Lovegood, and Ron Weasley.”

They all shake hands with her and exchange greetings and pleasantries.

“It is wonderful to be able to meet all of you - and it’s the first time here for all of you, correct?”

Everyone nods their heads.

She claps her hands together - which makes a slightly odd noise, due to all the rings on her right hand clinking with all the rings on her left hand. “Oh, then I _must_ give you all a tour. Please, follow me. And have you met my girlfriend, Ava, the bartender?” And with that she leads most of them away, chatting amiably with Ginny and Luna in particular, but as Harry turns to follow them, a hand around his wrist stops him.

It's Draco, but once Harry turns around and looks at him expectantly, he quickly drops his hand and turns red. "S-sorry. I'm not sure-I don't know why I did that. You can go on the tour if you want."

"No," Harry glances back at his group and catches Hermione's eye, which gives him a wink, "It's okay. Do you want to sit down somewhere?"

Draco red and - for some reason - sounds a little breathless. "Sure."

The club is winding down now, and prerecorded jazz songs play softly from the speakers, almost in tune with the gentle strobing lights. Harry and Draco take a seat in one of the many empty tables near the stage. Draco lays the bouquet down on the table and props his elbows on the table and rests his head on his hands and sighs deeply.

"Tired?"

"Beyond belief. The Christmas performance is always the worst one. So many high expectations."

"But you definitely shattered them all." Harry waves his hand at the emptying tables and chairs. "Did you see them all standing and clapping for you?"

Draco smiles. "Yes, I did. But they do that every year. And every performance."

"Isn't that a sign that you're doing something right?"

"...I guess," Draco finally concedes. "Sorry, I know I should take compliments better. I just feel like the second half wasn't...what I hoped it would be."

"What do you mean?" Harry thinks back to the conversation he and Hermione had about Draco's playing midway through.

"Well," Draco down at the table and starts tracing the pattern in the tablecloth. "It was the first time I have ever applied my research. About the magical capabilities of music. But I feel like-." He stops and takes a deep breath. "I feel like it didn't work too well."

"It worked."

He looks up, but his voice remains skeptical. "How do you know?"

"I felt it. Me and Hermione and the others - we all felt it."

His words seem to have set Draco alight. His eyes sparkle as they open wider than Harry's ever seen them. "Are you sure? A magical energy?" He digs into his small shoulder bag and produces a notebook. "Tell me everything, in as much detail as you can remember."

Although a little taken aback, Harry tries to help him by describing exactly what he felt during the performance. At the end, Draco scans his notes and mumbles to himself. Harry doesn't feel like he felt anything groundbreaking or interesting, but Draco seems totally invested and engrossed.

He snaps the notebook shut and slides it back into his bag. "Thank you so much. You have no idea how much that will help me."

"Of course," Harry assures him. "Anytime." And he means it.

"So, Potter. What do you think? Have I converted you?" His gaze is so earnest, so open. It throws Harry off a little bit; it's a look that he never felt comfortable sharing with Harry during Hogwarts, after all.

"Into a jazz fan? Like Arthur?"  
"Yep." He pops the 'p' at the end with his lips, drawing Harry's attention there.  
Harry pretends to think long and hard, "Hm...I don't know..."  
Laughing, Draco lightly punches Harry on the shoulder in retaliation. "Wanker."  
"Seriously though? Kind of. But maybe not a jazz fan. Maybe just a Draco Malfoy fan."  
Draco sobers up in record time. And then proceeds to blush. "You've got to stop that," he says so seriously that Harry panics, trying to figure out what he did wrong.  
"Stop...what?"  
He looks away and off behind Harry, at the rest of the club. "Saying things like that so...seriously."  
Harry scrunches up his eyebrows. "But I'm being serious about what I say...?"  
Draco's blushing so hard that he's visibly sweating again now. He avoids eye contact with Harry and instead stubbornly stares down at the table cloth.  
Maybe it's the alcohol. Or maybe Harry's just a crazy bastard. But he opens his mouth again and says, "You know, I could say the same for you."  
Draco starts, meeting Harry's eyes again in surprise. "What?"  
"You need to stop...being so talented."  
He manages not to be embarrassed again, and instead dons a conceited and all-too-familiar smirk. "Jealous?"  
"Not at all." Harry keeps on talking. He can't stop. He can't will his mouth to close. Every thought that forms in his brain immediately leaves. "In fact, it's the opposite."  
Draco tilts his head a little to one side, his brow making deep wrinkles between his eyes.  
"It's kind of...hot." _Jesus Merlin._ __  
Whatever Draco thought Harry was going to say next, this definitely did not enter the realm of possibility for him. His eyebrows rise high, then higher, then higher again. His eyes are wide, and Harry swears his hair starts standing on end too, like a cat.  
"Merlin, did I really just say that?"  
Before either of them can say anything more, Ron materializes at their table. "Yes, yes, you did." His voice is about half an octave higher than it usually is. He grips Harry's arm and helps him stand up. "Maybe we should call it a night?" His words are structured like a question, but it sounds more like a command than anything.   
Harry takes the hint and complies. "Uh. Yeah. I think you're right. We should. 'Night Draco, get back safely." And with that, the pair turn to leave. Harry spots the rest of their group plus Belle and Ava standing and chatting at the door, but most of them - namely Hermione and Ginny - keep glancing over at them with expressions a mixture of amusement and slight horror. Harry thinks his face must look the same.  
But a hand grabs Harry's again. "I'll owl you," Draco promises, looking into Harry's eyes earnestly. But all Harry can focus on at this point is how their hands are touching. Harry feels a sort of deja vu.  
"Okay," he manages to get out before Ron all but wrestles him over to the group and out the door. The last sight Harry gets before the door slams shut is Draco sitting at the very front of the club, giving him a slight wave.

 

“You alright, mate?” A hand waves in Harry’s face, and he snaps out of a daze and blinks his eyes and realizes that he’s no longer at the club. He’s in a bathroom. Specifically, he’s in _his_ bathroom at Grimmauld Place.

“When did-” When Harry begins talking, he grimaces, realizing that his mouth tastes of vomit. “When did I get here?”

Ron sighs and flushes the toilet, which Harry only just now realizes is full of vomit. _His_ vomit. The piece are beginning to come together now. “I Side-Alonged you. But only after you threw up in the alley.”

Harry winces in embarrassment. “Sorry, mate. I don’t understand,” he looks around him, at the drab gray walls of his bathroom, “I didn’t have _that_ much to drink.”

“Two whiskeys, right?”

“Right.” But then Harry remembers. “But I also didn’t eat that much for dinner, or for lunch. Or for breakfast…” he trails off reflecting on his extraordinarily poor life decisions. It’s a wonder that he even had anything to throw up at all.

“That’s probably why. It hit you hard.”

“Merlin.” Harry rubs his face wearily. “Mind helping me up?” Ron obliges and the two just stand in the bathroom, leaning side by side on the counter for a while.

“Did everyone else get home okay?”

“Yeah, I think so. ‘Mione’s still here, though. She should be waiting outside.”

 _True friends._ Harry knows he’s lucky to have them.

“Actually,” Ron continues, “I should probably tell her that you’re sane again-” He opens the door and Harry sees her; she’s sitting on his bed, reading a book. It’s not one of his, he knows that for sure since he threw out most of his, so she must have been carrying one around in her purse the entire time. Classic Hermione. “He’s conscious,” Ron announces.

Hermione closes her book quickly, walks into the bathroom, and wraps Harry in a hug. “Welcome back to the living.”

“Ha ha,” Harry says dryly, but he still hugs her back tightly. Ron gets in on it too, and the three of them just stand in the bathroom in a group hug for Merlin knows how long.

It’s Harry who lets go first. “Thank you guys for staying with me. But you all need to get back too.”

“Yeah, it’s getting late,” Hermione says, never once taking her eyes off of Harry. “We’ll go now, but call us if you need anything, okay? Our fireplace is open - the wards will let you in.”

“I will, I promise.” He’s lying. “Want me to lead you out?”

“It’s alright, we know the way.” As she and Ron file out of the bathroom, she stops and turns back to look at him in the doorway. “Good night, Harry.”

Harry doesn’t respond verbally, just waves his hand at them. The door closes, a minute passes, and Harry hears the roar of the fire as they Floo away. But Harry doesn’t leave the bathroom yet, just faces the mirror and regards his reflection.

His coat is gone, his green collared shirt is untucked, and his hair is even messier than it was at the beginning of the night when Ginny purposely messed it up. Below his dark eyes lie a darker-than-usual set of bags, and his lips are cracked and dry. He moistens them, a little bit self-consciously, even though no one is there to see him anymore. Except for maybe Kreacher. But he’s seen him at his worst anyways, and is probably used to it.

Although he told Ron he was sober earlier, the truth is that he still feels dizzy and slow. And he can’t really tell if his slight feeling of out-of-bodyness is actual dissociation or just his brain reacting to the leftover alcohol.

But all of that doesn’t stop him from already feeling the hangover beginning in his temples. He groans and splashes some water on his face. _Not showering tonight. Maybe tomorrow morning._ But he knows that he won’t. He never does.

Only stumbling a little bit on the way there, Harry somehow makes it out the bathroom, through the labyrinth of his bedroom, and onto his bed without bumping into and breaking anything. In fact, the main reason that his bedroom is comprised of only his bed and a set of drawers now when it used to contain several bookshelves, a couch, and a glass coffee table is because he once fell into and shattered the coffee table while drunk. Harry had never seen Kreacher so disappointed in his master. In fact, he didn’t even know that house elves could _be_ disappointed in their masters.

 _Whatever._ He shakes the thoughts way with minor success, mostly because he’s tired and drunk and ready for the peace of sleep. His sheets are warm and smell nice - like lavender. He’s grateful that Kreacher changes them regularly, because Merlin knows what state they would be in if laundry were his responsibility.

Harry closes his eyes, and the mundane thoughts disappear as his consciousness slips away for the night.

 

The next morning is hell.

"Master? Master Harry?"

"Uh?"

"Master, you'll be late to work."

Harry cracks his eyes open and sees the vague silhouette of a house elf hovering over him in the semi-dark.

"Would Master like me to open the curtains?"

"Ugh. No." Harry turns onto his other shoulder and shuts his eyes firmly again, willing himself to sleep for just for a few more moments. A headache has taken up residence in his temples, but no matter how many eviction notices he sends, it still doesn't leave.

Though Harry knows that Kreacher must be annoyed, he still complies, obedient as ever. "Will Master be going to work today?" He asks him in his croaky voice.  
Harry buries his head under his sheets until the darkness is complete around him. "Nope." No one will miss him anyway - except for maybe Ron. But even then he'll probably understand. Harry's missed work a lot in the past, so none of this is new. Sure, he was reprimanded by Kingsley himself when he skipped for extended periods of time in the past - probably because everyone knows that he's the only person in that damned Ministry that Harry is willing to listen to anymore - but nobody will notice one absence. Harry's been keeping good on his promise of punctuality and perfect attendance so far, so just one cheat day won't hurt.   
"Would Master like me to owl the Ministry then?  
"No. It's fine. Just let me sleep."  
"Very well." And with that, Kreacher apparates with a pop.   
It's just Harry again. Just Harry Potter buried in his bed with the windows drawn in his empty bedroom at Grimmauld Place. The house is mostly silent, save for the occasional groaning of the infrastructure as it settles in. And the neighborhood is usually quiet as well, even though Harry seems to have a lot of families with children for neighbors.   
He's never really met with any of the neighbors on his street. They sometimes host block parties or sell cookies and lemonade in the summers, but Harry's never been. He justifies it to other people - mostly Hermione - by claiming that his neighbors might be freaked out over a neighbor they never knew they had joining their events, but it's really because he's never in the mood to shoot the breeze with random Muggles.He’s barely ever in the mood to shoot the breeze with his friends.   
Harry rolls onto his back and sticks a leg out from under the blanket. The room is cold. The heating charms must have worn off.  
From downstairs somewhere, Harry hears some dishes clatter and hopes that it's Kreacher. And also hopes that he's making breakfast to take up for him.  
Harry wonders what time it is now, but makes no move to grab his wand off his bedside table and check. He might not even want to know. If he's late for work, then he'll be anxious. But not knowing if he's late for work yet or not makes him anxious too. So instead of doing anything to potentially resolve either anxiety, Harry just continues to lay, unmoving, in his bed and stare up at the ceiling. It's a drab gray color, and he suddenly flashes back to promising himself a long time ago that he'd makeover his room - and by extension the rest of the ugly house - some day. _I guess "some day" has still yet to arrive._  
Vaguely, he also wonders what Draco's doing right now. Maybe sleeping. Maybe at that cafe. Maybe even at the orphanage. When Harry closes his eyes, he can imagine the blonde at any location, relaxing, smiling, working.

For one brief moment, Harry even entertains the idea of going to see him at the jazz club tonight, but quickly trashes it when he reassesses his mental and physical capabilities at the moment and finds that he will most likely not even have the will to leave the bed today, let alone get dressed fancy again and going to a Muggle jazz club in the middle of London. Harry feels bad for one moment before it passes just as quickly as it came.  
Kreacher apparates back into his room after a few minutes with a tray of tea and small snacks - biscuits, cookies, and fruit.   
"Would Master like some breakfast?"  
"Yes, please." Harry sits up, takes the tray, and places it in his lap. The food smells good; Kreacher's baking has always been a point of pride for him, and anyone who tries his wares immediately knows why.

Mouth full of buttery biscuit, Harry manages to get out a muffled "Thank you." Kreacher doesn't react too much, simply bows and apparates away without another word. At Hermione's insistence, Harry has technically freed Kreacher, and he now technically works full-time in the Hogwarts kitchens. However, due to some drastic circumstances a year or two ago, Kreacher has been on extended leave from Hogwarts and has returned to Grimmauld place to take care of Harry. He doesn't really understand the loyalty because Harry is technically a half-blood and the godson of the Black family's greatest traitor - though he begrudgingly appreciates it while highly suspecting that it's also Hermione's secret handiwork.   
He's definitely late to work by now, but the anxiety still doesn't lessen very much.   
The house is too quiet. Now that Kreacher isn't preparing food any longer, Harry doesn't even have the ambient noise from the kitchen to vaguely keep track of time. His perceptions seem altered, unstable, and Harry feels his stomach slowly tie into knots as his heartbeats beat by.  
Maybe he should get a dog.  
He wonders if Draco is a dog person. He can see him as either - dog or cat.   
But then he realizes that he actually has to walk outside if he gets one and promptly drops the idea.  
The curtains are still drawn tight, so the room is dark and cool, but it's beginning to feel suffocating rather than comforting. With a wave of his hand, Harry uses wandless magic for the first time in a month to open the curtains. Light floods in. It's not snowing, but the clouds have gathered close in the sky, hinting at it. In the distance, Harry sees the roofs of his neighbor's house - all mostly frozen over and covered in snow. Their trees have lost all their leaves, and now their naked branches stand out in dark brown dashes, hooks, and exclamations stark against the white snow.  
Just as he bites into his last cookie - butterscotch, his favorite kind - Harry hears the sound of the Floo activating from outside his room.   
_Fuck._   
It's either Hermione or Ron. Those are the only people in the world for whom his wards allow access.   
"Harry?" It's Ron. He stops outside the door and knocks. If it were Hermione and she were coming to check up on him because he skipped work, the door would have flown off the hinges by now. And this isn't merely conjecture - it has precedent. Spelling the pieces of the door back together is more difficult than it should be, mostly because all the splinters of wood are hard to find back.  
"Come in?"  
The door opens and Ron strides in, dressed in his red Auror robes. It must be his lunch break already, Harry realizes, if he has enough time to come and visit.  
"Thank Merlin you're alright." Ron sits on Harry's bed and leans over and gives him a tight hug. "You're lucky i haven't told 'Mione yet."  
Harry tries to look as pathetic as possible, in a last ditch effort to dissuade him. "Yet?"  
But Ron has known him for long enough to know when Harry's bullshitting him. He just frowns disapprovingly at him and sighs. "You know I can't hide this from her. Not after what happened last time. I promised her."  
Harry sighs too. "Fine. I understand." He really does, but understanding doesn't stop him from feeling a little bitter. "Are you just here to check up on me?"

Ron suddenly looks even more serious than he did earlier - if that's even possible. "I wish. We need you back in the office. We're having an emergency staff meeting in an hour, and it's a big one this time. Robards'll seriously be pissed if you skip."

"Bloody hell. What's happened?" Not that Harry really cares anymore. He's mostly just annoyed that his non-plans of laying in bed and feeling sorry for himself all day have been ruined.

Ron rubs the back of his neck with agitation. "It's Jack Willows. He's escaped."

"What, the one who turned himself in last week?"

“Exactly the one." A sigh. "We were so sure that he'd been _Imperius_ 'd that the security on him was...not great. That plus some of the guards had snuck off and had their own holiday party on Christmas, so be probably saw a chance and took it."

"Shit."

"Right? And I'm pretty sure the staff meeting will be about his group's further movements and not just about his break out." Seeing Harry's confused face, Ron explains, "I overheard Kingsley and Robards' one-on-one earlier today."

Cold chills sprint up and down Harry's body, making him shiver even though his covers are warm. Reluctantly, he gets out of bed and begins to get dressed, but his mind is still racing. The rising trend in neo-Death Eaters - all mostly young, white, wizards resentful of the continual intermixing of the Wizarding and Muggle communities and whites and nonwhites - has mostly meant more paperwork for Harry, but he had assumed that they would come to their senses eventually. The War hadn't happened that long ago, after all, and he thought that the Wizarding community wouldn't be willing to go down that road quite so soon. But the movement his rapidly barreling toward a fever pitch, and if Willows and his gang are really planning something serious...

“But you didn’t hear any specifics?”

“No. I only caught a little bit of what they were talking about.”

“Bloody hell,” Harry says, his voice a little muffled by the sweater he’s pulling over his head. It’s his favorite one - a nice cream color with red stripes. Harry throws his robes over it and pulls on a pair of his trusty bootcuts.

"I know. Hopefully it's not as bad as we think, but..." Ron trails off and doesn't finish his sentence. He doesn't have to; Harry shares the same sentiment.   
Shoving his wand in his coat pocket, Harry turns to Ron and says, "Ready?"  
He stands. "Ready."   
The two leave the bedroom and head into the living room, where only his fireplace, liquor cabinet, television, and dusty couch sit. Kreacher is nowhere to be seen, and he doesn't come to wave Harry off. Not that Harry really cares.  
With a pinch of powder and the roar of the flame, they're gone, on their way to the Ministry.  
Despite the potential disaster looming on the horizon, the Ministry seems fairly calm - like it's a normal Monday. The fountain is gurgling away as always; after the War, Hermione petitioned to have the old statue replaced. Her argument was that it perpetuated the oppression of non-magical beings as well as of witches - the witch in the statue was portrayed as less important than the wizard, after all - and Kingsley had agreed. Harry, Ron, and Hermione all supported the change, until it turned out the replacement statue was going to be of them, by popular demand. The public wanted it, and despite their efforts to stop it from happening, the public got it: a ten foot tall statue-fountain of the "Golden Trio" that now guards the front of the Ministry. It's really embarrassing to look at, but in all the years that Harry's been working at the Ministry, walking by it every morning to go to work, the initial mortification and annoyance has faded somewhat. Nowadays, Harry and Ron barely even notice it anymore.  
The receptionist chirps out a greeting at them, and they greet him back to be polite. A few other wizards and witches call out to them as they pass and as they ride in the lift, but Harry mostly lets Ron talk to them. Ron knows Harry doesn't like to deal with them, and he's a good enough friend to shoot the breeze on his behalf - "How was your Christmas? Mine was great, did I tell you Hermione's pregnant?" and "Do you think it'll snow again?" are two prominent conversation starters today.  
Thankfully, it's not a long ride to reach their floor. The lift dings open and the voice announces, "Department of Magical Law Enforcement, incorporating the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services."  
As they step off, Ron waves to the man he's been chatting with in the lift, "Bye, tell Henry I said Merry Christmas!"   
"Tempus." The time floats in the air in front of the two for a little bit before they pass it while walking and it disappears behind them. "Not late - yet."  
"Thank Merlin." They reach the meeting room and find that most everyone has arrived before them. The double doors are propped open and inside is seated all the Aurors with Kingsley at the head of the long table. All heads turn to look at them as Ron and Harry draw close.  
Kingsley closes the file in front of him and looks up. "Ah." He looks neither disappointed nor surprised. "Good, now we can begin. I believe there are two open seats right here." He gestures toward two seats near the front.  
Feeling slightly awkward, but also stubbornly unwilling to display any kind of weakness in front of the bastards in the room - especially Robards - Harry strides in with Ron following him and they take their seats. As soon as they do, the doors swing shut and the meeting begins.

"As you all know," Kingsley begins, "Jack Willows, one of the main leaders of the recent neo-Death Eater movement has escaped from custody after he turned himself in claiming the _Imperius_ curse the Friday before last. I don't think I need to say this, but this is nearing an emergency situation - and not just because he escaped."

Robards jumps in eagerly, his voice powerful and confident, "Since he escaped - which we know occurred yesterday night sometime between 9 PM and 2 AM - we've gotten several reports from our field agents posted in the at popular neo-Death Eater hangouts that their group has not only doubled in membership in a week, but is currently on the move. Several of the members have stayed in their safe houses but most of the top brass have escaped from our detection. We don't know what exactly they're planning, but we know it's coming soon. And we need to prepare. And to find Jack Willows and all of his friends."

A hand shoots up. It's Jenny, one of the most veteran and respected people in the department, other than Robards and Kingsley. Harry's always liked her, though they never really have any contact with each other. Due to her experience, Kingsley's always sending her on high-level, top secret missions - the details of which even Robards can't access. Harry really only ever sees her back in the office once or twice the entire year.

Kingsley calls on her, "Yes, Jenny."

"Do you have any plans of informing the public? Or the Muggle Prime Minister, at least?"

Robards shakes his head, his arms crossed and his face stern and condescending. What a bastard, Harry thinks. Jenny has at least ten more years of experience on him but he still treats her like a trainee at times. "No, they don't need to know about any of this. We're going to warn our community and encourage everyone to be on the lookout for suspicious activity."

Harry and Ron bristle in their seats at this, both of them ready to open their mouths and speak, but Jenny says it all for them, and less aggressively, too: "Why is that? From the neo-Death Eater and frankly, from the original Death Eater threat that I've seen and that most of us here has lived through, it seems pretty clear that the danger isn't toward the Wizarding community. Wouldn't it make more sense to warn the possible victims so they can actually take precautions?"  
Kingsley opens his mouth to speak, but Robards cuts him off, visibly irritated now. Sometimes, Harry swears he just gets off by riling people up and then debating them. "It would cause massive panic. Muggles wouldn't know what to do with the information - look at what happened when we told them about Sirius Black all those years ago. Their Prime Minister couldn't do anything! And during the Second War, too! Muggles can't defend themselves against magic!"  
Harry feels his body heat up with anger. Mostly because he and everyone else in the bloody meeting room including Robards know full well that when the Second War was becoming a reality, he chose to fuck off to America the whole time to go into hiding. He didn't want to deal with any of it, and Harry privately suspects that he actually sympathized with the Death Eaters, but wanted to position himself like a vulture to swoop in and take over whatever's left at the end of it all. If his suspicions are correct, then Robards has even _less_ authority on the matter.  
But Jenny isn't backing down. Though Robards has wasted no time in raising his voice, standing up from his chair, and pacing angrily back and front in the front of the room, Jenny remains seated in her chair, her voice the same level, same tone, and her face the same expression as always - cool, collected, somewhat indifferent but not uninterested at the same time. Harry supposes that to go on the ultra-top-secret missions - which are rumored to be spy missions to the Ministries of different countries - she has had to learn how to keep her cool no matter which balding blockhead tries to speak over and silence her. "I agree with you that our tactics during the Second War were ineffective. But all that tells us is that we need to change it. And that's precisely what I'm advocating and have been advocating for since the First War, which you would know if you had been there for either of the two." She pauses a little bit to take a small sip of her water, time perfectly to let the insult fully sink into Robards' brain. And when it does, the effects are immediate and obvious: reddened ears, the clenching of the hands, and his quickened breath.

After swallowing her water, she continues, "What I suggest is a combination of both Wizarding and Muggle outreach. Of course, Muggles can't yet protect themselves from magical forces, but Wizards can. What's stopping a collaboration between the two communities? Our histories are marked with so much strife already - I think more teamwork and mutual understanding, especially from the Wizarding side, is long overdue."

Harry wishes he could stand and clap for the woman, but Ron’s firm, restraining hand on his thigh indicates that it might not be an entirely appropriate time for it.

Robards opens his mouth, clearly about to go off on one of his infamous tirades, but Kingsley raises his hand and he falls silent. Even Robards, the arrogant, pompous bastard he is, doesn’t dare cross the literal Minister of Magic.

“Jenny, I appreciate your opinion on the matter.” She nods in acknowledgement. “But unfortunately, since the Second War, relations between the British Prime Minister and the Ministry have been...fraught. And even through the years, they haven’t recovered much. Some of you probably already know this.” Harry and Ron make eye contact. The only reason they know is because Kingsley accidently let it slip after one too many drinks at an Order of the Phoenix reunion once. Apart from them, the only ones in the room with recognition in their eyes are Jenny, Robards, and another senior Auror - who happens to be Jenny’s partner - Ash.

Coincidentally, it’s zem who speaks up next, interrupting Kingsley. “If I could, Minister.” Kingsley nods to signal that ze can continue to speak. “Even if this is the case, I still suggest a warning of some kind. And then a request for the most vulnerable areas - the Muggle streets and neighborhoods with high traffic, or something similar. In fact, I have reason to believe that intel from our field agents may provide clues to their first target. Protecting people should be - and _is_ \- the Auror department’s number one priority, and it shouldn’t ever matter again whether or not they’re Muggle or magical.” Jenny snaps at that, and the two intertwine their hands at the table.

Kingsley and Robards constantly make a strange pair, no matter the context. Right now, for the example, Kingsley’s face is perfectly smooth, not ripple of any emotion other than thoughtfulness, while Robards’ face looks like a volcano about to erupt; his facial features are shifting endlessly, quivering, like molten lava is slowly moving them around, making his eyebrows bunch closer and closer together.

After a long moment: “Your position is an interesting and valuable one…” Kingsley begins, slow and hesitant as if he is choosing his words carefully. “...and I will endeavor to put it into action either today or tomorrow. But for now, we have these following orders for you all.” At that, he stops talking and looks to Robards expectantly.

Robards still looks pissed - like a tea kettle boiling with the lid sealed shut - but he can't let out any steam yet, not in front of Kingsley. Taking a deep breath, he begins. "Brown, Jones, Robinson, you three are our main connection between the agents in the field and the Ministry - me and the Minister. Each of you will be in charge of closely monitoring a group, and you will be responsible with reporting and documenting their movements as well as staying up to date with their safety.

What seems to be those three people - a woman with her black hair in a short, sleek bob, a bearded man who Harry notices only ever dresses in Muggle formal attire, and another man with long blonde hair tied in a low ponytail and a pair of square glasses sitting low on his face - sit up straight and nod. If Harry recalls correctly, they're the most newbie team in the department. In fact, he's pretty sure he's seen at least one or two of their faces at the Ministry-wide trainee graduation ceremony last Spring.

Robards moves on to the next group. "Hughes and Edwards, both of you too will continue the work you've been doing with researching the group as well as looking into whether or not similar movements abroad are in contact with Jack Willows' people." Harry can't help but to stiffen at the mention of Keith Edwards. He's nothing but a bloody wanker with a death wish, and Harry is close to granting it for him. Edwards' partner may be Mackenzie Hughes, a well-mannered woman who pays attention even at the 9AM staff meetings, but he's closer with a group of other cronies of his - most of them white, male field agents - who regularly go around the office terrorizing people - mainly focusing on Harry. He's a bigot and a bully, and the fact that Robards still keeps him around and protects him is testament enough to his own character.

But today, Edwards doesn't look half as mean as he usually does. His face is almost deflated, empty, devoid of much emotion. And when Robards addresses him, he only flinches and nothing else. Hughes is similarly silent, only nodding in acknowledgement of Robards' orders, but that’s in character. Ron nudges Harry under the table and the two share a fleeting, confused look. It looks like Ron doesn't know what's going on either.

But Robards doesn't seem to notice Edwards' peculiar demeanor. Really, judging by the way his narrowed eyes are still darting back and forth between Jenny and Ash, it just seems like he's still preoccupied by the interaction he had with them earlier. “Clarke and Weasley," he continues. Ron's hand tenses up a bit. Despite the fact that he's reminded Robards time and time again that he's married now and that his surname is legally Granger-Weasley, he's never bothered changing it. Hermione insists that it's not something to get too upset over, and Harry secretly agrees, but it continually bothers Ron. “You two will join the field teams, but with a focus on prevention and protection.” Alexandra Clarke, a round woman with long auburn hair who’s been Ron’s loyal partner ever since he joined the force, nods at Ron from across the table. Harry’s quite fond of her - she once baked Harry a batch of butterscotch cookies for his birthday, unprompted and without any ulterior motive. In fact, he wasn’t supposed to find out that she was the one who had done it, but Ron accidently let it slip to him almost immediately after they found the plate at his cubicle door.

Finally, only the last partner pair remains - Jenny and Ash. Robards opens his mouth and draws in another breath to give them their orders, but Kingsley cuts him off, stunning most everyone.

"Ash, Jenny - sorry Gawain - I'm changing your initial order. You two are with me now. I think that if I am going to try to communicate with the Muggle Prime Minister, I will require your assistance."

Mouth gaping, Robards tries to protest, "But Kingsley! That's not what-"

He shuts up as soon as Kingsley lifts a finger to his lips. Harry's never seen him make the motion before, to anyone. Then, the Minister of Magic winks. "Don't tell my boss, would you?"

Defeated, Robards has no choice but to collapse in his chair in defeat. Harry watches him try to make eye contact with Edwards, but the man is still sitting in the exact same position as he was before, unmoving and staring at the table. It doesn't even look like he heard any of the exchange that just happened.

But Harry and Ron did, and they both send triumphant grins Kingsley's way, but he pretends has if he doesn't see them.

Ash's eyes are glittering when ze speaks, bowing zir head slightly. "Of course. We would be glad to help."

"My 'O' in Muggle Studies is finally going to be put to use," Jenny jokes, making Harry crack a smile. Truthfully, if she weren't already dating Ash, Harry would've tried to get close to her as well. She's always reminded Harry of Ginny in some ways - her strong convictions and spunk being two of them.

"Alright. If no one has any further questions, this meeting is adjourned. Remember, report any unusual or suspicious activity back to either me or Gawain." Seeing that no one is raising their hand, Kingsley stands, takes the file folder in front of him, and begins to leave. "Good work everyone, and good luck. Hopefully we can resolve this soon. Gawain, if you please."

At the request, Robards snaps out of whatever world of resentment and hatred his brain has run off to and quickly follows Kingsley out into the hall, heading toward the latter's office, Harry assumes. As soon as they leave, the mood of the room relaxes enormously, and the newbies begin chatting amiably as they also pick up and head for the door.

Clarke, Ron’s partner, walks up to them and she and Ron become immersed in conversation and discussion of the equipment they want to bring, etc. While they’re doing that, Harry realizes that he wasn’t given anything to do. Not a single responsibility. _What the fuck._ “Ron, er, I’m gonna catch up with them - I just thought of a question.”

He looks at Harry quizzically, but knows not to press it here - especially since Edwards is still in the room, still seated at his chair, still staring at the table. He may seem out of it today, but he could still be secretly listening in. “Okay. If I don’t see you again, see you tomorrow?”

Harry takes the hint and nods, though secretly uncertain that he’ll be able to make it tomorrow, either. “Yeah. Be careful.” With a wave, he’s off, walking briskly through the halls, heading for Kingsley’s office.

And when he gets there, he understands why he was in such a rush to leave. And why he insisted that Robards come with him. Gathered at his doors - which are closed, thankfully - is a massive horde of reporters from all sorts of different Wizarding news outlets, many of which Harry has never heard of before. What appears to be the most pushy one has a shirt with _The_ _Prophet_ ’s logo emblazoned on it.

Although Kingsley’s nowhere to be seen, Robards is there, standing in front of the door almost in an effort to guard it and prevent the crowd from entering.

They’re all shouting at and over each other, each one trying to be the first outlet to break what they probably sense is a juicy story. But Robards - though he is an asshole and a tyrant - is the best in possibly the entire Ministry with dealing with the press. He’s been doing it for several decades, after all.

He’s yelling right back at them, his face red, sweat pouring down, and several neck veins standing out starkly against his otherwise pale skin, but he’s still tight lipped about anything and everything.

“Who other the Minister is in his office?”

“No one, piss off!” He growls.

“Can I get a comment on the rumor of the escaped prisoner?”

“Comment.”

“What about the rumor that it was due to Auror negligence?”

“The only negligence that happens in the department is because everyone has to deal with you annoying wankers instead of doing their work.” After he finishes that sentence, Robards locks eyes with Harry. “What do _you_ want?” he barks at him.

All at once, a dozen faces turn and see Harry standing at the other side of the hallway.

“Harry!” “Harry, are you involved with-” “Do you have any comment about-” “Do you know anything-” “Have you-” Are-” They’ve left the door now, swarming Harry instead, but that doesn’t stop him from walking toward Robards and Kingsley’s office.

Clenching and unclenching his hands slowly, gritting his teeth, and curling his toes, Harry manages to approach Robards without screaming.

“What do you want?” The man asks him, his arms folded, looking at Harry, unimpressed with what he sees.

“What are my duties,” Harry manages to get out through tightly gritted teeth. “You forgot to mention them during the meeting.” Behind him, Harry feels and hears every stroke of every letter of every word of every sentence that the reporters are scribbling down in their notepads.

And Harry can tell Robards is seeing them too. They both know that they’ve entered dangerous waters now; neither can divulge too much about Harry’s current professional state, as the media still believes that Harry is a successful, brave, high-ranking Auror. If any evidence of the contrary comes to light, especially during an already stressful time for the Ministry, Harry’s day-to-day life would once again become a literal battleground - just as he was immediately after the War and his divorce.

“...I’ll send you an owl. Later.” He raises his eyebrows and jerks his head. Harry takes the hint and leaves quickly, and the crowd of reporters promptly swarm back around Robards, and their group shouting match begins again.

And a few minutes of walking through the Ministry, ducking his head whenever anyone passes by to avoid conversation, Harry’s settled in his office chair again, in his empty cubicle. His desk is just as messy as he left it when he dashed off to dinner at Andromeda’s the Friday before last. _Merlin, has it really only been a little more than a week?_

Idly, Harry rubs the dusty framed picture of him, Hermione, and Ron with the corner of his sweater. They took it a few years ago, at some kind of fundraising event for Hermione's nonprofit - which has since closed down, but Hermione is currently working on getting it back up and running - but it looks like it could’ve been taken just yesterday.

They all have drinks in their hands, which explains how drunk they look in it. Hermione is doubling over in laughter, almost spilling the contents of her cup, and Ron’s hand is resting on the small of her back, his face twisting in barely contained glee and amusement. Harry stands to the side of both of them, and he’s laughing too, but not as hard. He’s mainly watching his two best friends fall over themselves laughing with a smile on his face - eyes warm.

Public events like those were always hell, what with hordes of hungry reporters and arse-kissers constantly on the Golden Trio’s tail, but at least they had each other to rely on.

When the picture frame is mostly dust-free, Harry puts it back down on his desk and picks up the folder laying on top of dozens of unfinished reports. He peels back the front flap and the escaped Neo-Death Eater, Jack Willows, stares up at him with his dull blue eyes. Harry inspects his file with a small spark of interest, but quickly finds after thumbing through his information for a few seconds that there's nothing too interesting to be found.

Willows comes from a long line of white Purebloods - shocker - but it seems that his family kept a low profile during the first two Wars. His parents raised both him and his little sister in America during the whole fiasco, and it's only once he grew into an adult that he moved back to Britain.

 _And now he's an extremist,_ Harry thinks bitterly. He closes the file and tosses it back onto his desk in disgust.

For the the next several minutes Harry alternates between sitting in his chair and staring blankly at his wall and leaning back and hoping to 'accidentally' fall asleep as he waits for an owl from Robards to give him some direction.

An owl does come, in the end, but when Harry unties the letter from its leg and unfurls again, he perks up as soon as he realizes it's not from Robards, but Draco.

_Harry,_

A pleasant tingle goes through his body as he reads his given name, written in the hand of Draco Malfoy.

_Thank you again for extending the invitation to the Weasley family's Christmas. And for attending my concert. I had an excellent time, and I hope you did too. Please extend my thanks to the rest of the Weasleys as well._

_I am also writing to ask whether or not you would like to meet up for dinner this week. Please let me know your answer and if yes, your availability._

_Best,_

_DM_

The owl he sent with the letter preens itself lazily, clearly unaware of the life-changing letter it just delivered. Blood roaring in his ears, Harry almost knocks half the contents of his desk onto the floor in his haste to find a piece of parchment and quill. His response turns out barely legible due to his trembling hands, but it reads like this:

_Draco,_

_I'm glad that you enjoyed Christmas. Dinner sounds great. I'm free any night this week, so it's up to whatever's convenient for you. Do you have a place in mind?_

_Harry_

With a flash of feathers, his letter is on its way to its recipient. _If Robard's sends an owl now_ , Harry thinks, _I'll be pissed beyond belief._

But luckily enough, the next owl is from Draco and not Harry's much-detested boss.

_Harry,_

_Does tomorrow at 7PM work for you? I'll pick you up from your place. And yes, I have a restaurant in mind - Adore - it's a delightful Muggle establishment. I hope that it will be to your liking._

_Best,_

_DM_

Harry's reply leaves his desk in record time. When he's done, he cradles his wrist a little bit - it's cramped from writing so fast.

_Draco,_

_Perfect. Here's my address: 12 Grimmauld Place. I look forward to seeing you then._

_Harry_

While he's waiting for a reply, Harry doodles some shapes in the corner of Jack Willow's case folder. No one would care to look twice at his reports, anyways, so it doesn't matter what he does with it as long as he maintains the illusion of productivity.

The final letter of their exchange comes at last:

_Harry,_

_Fantastic. I will be at your door at 7PM to Side-Along you. I hope you have a pleasant day._

_DM_

The adrenaline takes a while to settle in his veins; it's been several years since his last, real date, and the stakes are even higher since it's with Draco Malfoy. Once his heart is beating at its regular rate, Harry feels his earlier enthusiasm slip away. Sure, he may have a date tomorrow night, but he's still here, sitting in his chair in his cramped, gray office, working a sham job. He checks the time and groans when it tells him that he still has several hours left to waste away.

 _I wonder what Ron's up to. Probably tracking the Death Eaters._ Or maybe he's already on the ground, staking them out with a Weasley Wizard Wizzes' patented Disillusionment cloak on, or dashing through darkened alleyways, sending flashes of light at the figures in the distance. Harry lays his head down on the small empty space on his desk. _And to think that he was jealous of_ me _when we were at Hogwarts._

In the end, Harry takes a mostly unintentional nap while trying to pass the time. The owl with instructions from Robards never comes, but Harry doesn't care. As soon as it's 5:00PM, Harry heads out his office, not even bothering to spell it locked behind him.

He passes Ron's office and peeks in, but he's not there and his robes aren't slung over the back of his desk chair. He must have left already. Or maybe he really is out doing field work right now. Harry stuffs his hands in his robe pockets, ducks out of the Ministry, and apparates home.

Kreacher has dinner waiting for him when he gets back, but even though the aroma of chicken curry, his favorite food, would usually get him salivating before even reaching the kitchen, Harry feels nothing. He bites into his food and tastes nothing. He vaguely registers Kreacher off the side, eyeing him with concern and asking him questions - is it not to Master's liking? Would Master like a glass of water? Milk? Juice? - but he doesn't care enough to respond with more than grunts. After dinner, as he sinks into the squished couch he bought at a Muggle yard sale a few years ago and fires up the television, he feels nothing.

He's not sure how much time has passed when his fireplace flashes green and Hermione steps out and marches up to Harry.

“Harry.”

“Hm?” The colors flashing on the screen distract him momentarily. “Oh, hullo.”

“I heard from Ron. That you were thinking of skipping work today.” Her hands are rested on her hips.

“...Yeah.” Harry knows better than to lie.

She doesn’t get angry, just sits onto the couch beside him and lays a gentle, warm hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me the truth, please.”

“ _Yes._ ” He makes a point to make direct eye contact with her. “I’m fine. There. Happy?”

Her voice is a whisper. “Harry. You know why I’m concerned about you. Last time you did this y-”

“I _know_!” He snaps at her, jaw clenching. “Are you going to hold that over my head forever?”

“Harry, you know that’s not what I mean.”

“Then why don’t you just let it _go?”_

She raises her voice slightly for the first time the entire conversation. “Because you scared the shit out of us and we don’t want it to ever happen again!”

 _Oh you don’t even know the half of it._ “It won’t. It’s not.”

They sit in silence for a few, heavy moments. The house is dark and quiet, not even Kreacher’s feet scrabbling on the wooden floor can be heard.

“Have you given what I said a week ago some thought? About getting help?”

 _No._ “Yeah.”

“And?”

“I don’t need it. I’m getting better, Hermione, I already told you. Christmas went fine, didn’t it?”

She shakes her head sadly, as if in mourning. “I’ve been reading some Muggle literature, and they say that mental illness can be complicated.”

“Merlin,” he interrupts her, “you’ve been _researching?”_ He groans and rubs his face.

“Yes. And I’ve learned that healing isn’t always linear. There are ups and downs. And Ron and I want to be there for you in the lulls, but we can’t if you’re never honest ab-”

“I’m _not lying!_ ” She opens her mouth to argue some more, but Harry cuts her off. “Why can’t you guys just _believe me?_ Take me at my word? I thought friends were supposed to trust each other!”

 

[Reference to attempted suicide in next two paragraphs]

 

“ _Because,_ ” Hermione stresses every single syllable and her voice rises an octave, “You’ve broken our trust before! It happened just like this last time too - you drew more and more into yourself and pushed all of us out when you were really suffering! I had half a mind to take you to St. Mungo’s right then and there that day!”

He shoots back, his words like a weapon, “Well maybe you fucking should have. When you and Ron came I was about to do it. I really was - I had a plan and-” He stops.

 

[Reference over]

 

Fat tears squeeze out of Hermione’s eyes but she stays silent, never taking her eyes off of Harry. When she opens her mouth to speak again, it’s only a whisper. “I’m sorry Harry. I’m so sorry.”

His throat constricts; if he’s not careful, he’s going to begin crying too. But he’s done crying, at least in front of other people. “That doesn’t fucking mean anything to me. How do you think your ‘sorry’s will help me? And your endless nagging?” His lips curl viciously. “Did those Muggle books tell you that would solve this? ‘Cure’ me? I thought you were smarter than that, Hermione.”

His best friend flinches from him as if burned. The sympathy that once was etched into her face dissipates. When she speaks, Harry notices her lips quiver, “Fine. Fine. I’ll leave you alone. If that’s what you want.” She rises from the couch, throws a pinch of powder into the fireplace, and Floos away without another word, without even a look back.

Harry Potter feels nothing. Because he wills himself not to. But still, mutinous tears stream down his cheeks and every sob brings him lower and lower, smaller and smaller, until he’s curled up on the couch.

He falls asleep like that, and when he rises in the morning, puffy-eyed and sore, he notices that Kreacher had thrown his comforter over him sometime in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y i k e s!!


	10. Chapter 10

The only thing that spurs Harry to actually go to work and not mope around at home is the thought that Hermione might invite herself over again at any point and give her a piece of her mind for their conversation last night. No - it wasn't a conversation, it was a full blown argument. Probably one of the worst ones they've had in several years. Harry half expects a Howler from Ginny to drop in on his head at any moment; she and Hermione seem to have formed some kind of pact a while back, whenever Harry's being an ass to one of them, they tell each other and the other one comes and knocks some sense into Harry. It's a pretty good system, Harry begrudgingly acknowledges.

But nothing comes. Life goes on much as it did before; Kreacher gleefully makes him breakfast, Harry throws his scarlet Auror robe on top of a worn T-shirt and jeans combo and heads to his office.

For the rest of the Ministry, it's just a regular Tuesday. The statue-fountain of the 'Golden Trio' gurgles freely and the receptionist practically breaks his hand waving at Harry and trying to get his attention, like always. When he steps off on the Auror Department's level, however, is when hell breaks loose.

Paper airplane memos are so thick in the air that they regularly collide with each other and fall to the ground briefly before taking off again, more crumpled than before. Everywhere Harry looks there's a flash of red - someone's robes - as they dash from cubicle to cubicle, round corners with frightening speed, and sprint down the hall with bundles of files cradled in their arms. There's a distinct coffee stain on the carpet to the right of the elevator that no one's bothered to clean up, even though it's only a simple swish and flick of the wand. For the first time since Harry's begun working in the department, not a single person greets him as he walks past toward his cubicle. Not a single person even spares him a glance - they're too busy completely immersed in their files, in their enchanted maps, in discussing strategy with their team members. Harry wonders if this was what the department was like during the Wizarding Wars.

Thankfully, his cubicle is nestled in the corner of the floor, away from all the hubbub. Because he's not actually involved in any of the efforts to apprehend the Death Eaters, Harry's surprised to find a memo hovers outside his door when he reaches his door. He snatches it out of the air, pushes open his door, and collapses in his chair. The memo reads:

 

_Mandatory meeting for all units and individuals in the Auror Department in the Conference Room at 10am._

_\- Kingsley_

 

"Tempus." The spell reads: '9:47am.' Harry sighs and vanishes the note. From afar, Harry can still hear the hurried footsteps of his coworkers in the hall.

A flicker of movement draws his attention to the picture frame on his desk - the one of Hermione, Ron, and Harry during the charity gala - only when his eyes settle on it, he realizes that both Hermione and Ron seemed to have left the frame entirely. Picture-Harry swirls the champagne in his flute, his eyes darting around the hall. The warm smile usually resting easy on his features has gone, leaving only a nervous grimace in its place.

Harry's head hits his desk with a soft thunk. He knows this is his fault. He knows what he did. A nasty voice in the back of his mind tries to convince him that he was justified, but was he? Probably not.

 _Merlin, what is wrong with me?_ He thinks, half ready to tear his hair out in frustration at his own idiocy. He briefly considers owling Hermione an apology, but decides better of it. It wouldn't be worth anything anyways. And he's afraid that making amends would just be inviting her to poke her nose into his life again, which he can't have. She can't see me like this, he thinks, reveling in the coolness of his desk against his forehead.

He checks the time again and realizes he'd better make his way to the conference room soon. He doubts anything said in the meeting will actually be pertinent for him, and honestly no one would miss him if he didn't show up, but he's grateful for any distraction at this point.

For once, Harry's isn't the last one to make it to the meeting. One by one, the teams either trek in, faces grim and feet dragging slush all over the floor, or skid in, out of breath and robes haphazardly thrown over their clothes. In comparison, Harry seems completely put together. The only people missing when the meeting begins are Jenny and Ash, but Harry assumes that they're currently working hard trying to negotiate with the Muggles.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice, during such a busy time," Kingsley begins, surveying the room. There's a flicker of pity in his eyes. "This will be quick, I promise."

Harry glances at Ron who's standing on the other side of the room, back against the wall and his arms folded. He was out in the field too, it seems, judging from his mussed hair and the puddle of melted snow pooling at his feet. His eyes are resolutely trained on Kingsley and no one else. If he notices Harry looking at him or even Harry existing in the room at all, he doesn't show it. Harry feels cold all of a sudden.

Kingsley continues. "I just have a few updates: one, we've been getting dozens of anonymous tips about Muggle attacks all over England, but they seem to all be false. We're assuming their strategy is to spread our resources as thin as possible. For the time being, we're closing off the anonymous option when sending us tips and posting Auror trainees around the country to call in reinforcements in case one of the tips ends up being true."

Harry's leg begins to shake violently under the table, and he has to consciously stop himself from rattling his chair and disturbing others. No wonder the field teams look so knackered. After the war, the Auror department has shrunk by quite a lot. There simply wasn't much of a use for them anymore other than the occasional contraband item bust, guard duty for top ranking Ministry officials, and ongoing criminal investigations - that is, until very recently.   
"Two," Kingsley continues, "we're currently in the process of working with the Muggle Prime Minister on a precautionary plan that will prioritize Muggle and Muggleborn safety, especially for those who are nonwhite. Jenny and Ash are leading this project and are in talks with top Muggle officials at this moment; they don't need additional help right now, but that may be subject to change as we confirm details and construct a solid plan. I will keep you updated."  
Robards, who has been silently sulking behind Kingsley this whole time, adjourns the meeting, "That's all we have for you this morning. Remember, stay focused and report anything - and I mean anything - suspicious directly to me. Don't wait. We need to get them before they do real damage, got it?"  
Around the room, all the Aurors nod their heads solemnly. They all realize that the meeting has been mostly inconsequential, which means there haven't been concrete updates to the investigation. The haggard, sleep-deprived faces twist in frustration as they realize that their efforts aren't leading anywhere yet.   
"Great. Meeting adjourned," Robards practically growls at the end before storming out the room. Kingsley lifts an eyebrow at the aggressive display, but gives no other indication that Robards is acting strangely in any way. Harry wonders what their one-on-ones must be like. Perhaps it's better if he didn't know.  
As the rest of the department dutifully files out the door, conversation subdued as morale drops a little, Kingsley speaks up. "Harry."  
Harry starts as he's in the process of adjusting his robes and walking out. "Yes?"  
"You have yet to receive an assignment, correct?"  
"Yeah."  
"Here." He slides a stack of files across the table to Harry. "Do you mind processing the intel on the members as they come in and make sure our records are up to date?"  
Paperwork. Classic. "Sure. Anything else?"  
Only then does Harry dare to meet Kingsley's gaze. He's smiling with no trace of disappointment or pity in his face. "That's all. Good work so far."  
Harry almost snorts, but opts to give a shaky nod, grab the files, and duck out of the room instead. 'Good work.' He could laugh if it weren't so depressing. Harry hasn't done anything useful in this department in years - practically since he first joined. Maybe the most he's ever contributed to the force was the one time someone brought in a broken Muggle coffee machine and he fixed it for them.   
Rifling through the files as he walks, he grows more and more bored by the page. Their knowledge about the group seems to have remained relatively unchanged; they know the identities of most of the leaders, but not much else, no knows relations, addresses - nothing. There’s nothing for the field groups to go off of, which is the key to a successful arrest or bust.

The files land on his desk in a heap, some of its contents spilling out and mixing with each other, but Harry can’t be bothered to care. Hermione and Ron are still out of the frame of his picture. The gray walls of his cubicle are unmoving and impassive.

He’s bored.

The photos associated with the suspected Death Eaters are blurry, the figures in them dark and shadowy. They seem less of an accurate tool for identification and more of the photographer’s best attempt at capturing a vague human form. Nothing much is listed in the description section - some estimates of their heights, weights, and some distinguishing features like the missing finger on the left hand of one of the suspects.

In short, the Aurors are fucked.

Harry knows that he’s never really been good at the investigative side of Auror work - he almost failed his practical during his time in the Academy - but he can’t help feeling antsy knowing the department is struggling. Knowing that nonwhite Muggle and Muggleborn lives are at stake.

He shakes his leg so hard that the quills on his desk vibrate. After spending a dozen or so minutes feeling as if he isn’t quite himself, isn’t quite in his body but rather levitating out his door and out the Ministry altogether, he takes the picture frame that used to house him and his friends and tosses it facedown into his desk drawer. Watching picture-Harry shift from foot to foot and look so profoundly uncomfortable and _lonely_ was becoming too much.

An hour - or maybe two - passes like that; Harry slumped at his desk, alternating between staring at the inside of his eyelids and the office carpet. He knows that he should be working on paperwork, but he can’t see the point. _They’re not even close to catching any of them anyways._ And judging from the hectic state of the entire department, no one would notice if Harry were to slack off a little bit, cut some corners. In fact, they still might not even notice if Harry left work altogether.

His office door swings open and hits the wall with a muffled _thump._ Harry looks up. It’s Ron.

“You have some explaining to do.” His robes have dried now.

"Good morning to you too."

"It's the afternoon now," he snaps, "I'm here instead of taking my lunch break. So you better talk."

"I'm guessing this is about Hermione." Harry feigns ignorance, but Ron knows him better than that. He doesn't respond, just stares at him with an eyebrow raised.

"We got in a fight, that's all."

"No shit. I want to know what you said to her that messed her up so bad. When she came home last night she didn't stop crying until two in the morning."

Harry flinches at his words. "I just told her to piss off."

"Bullshit."

"It's the truth! If she was upset then...that's her problem."

A strong flush has risen to Ron's cheeks now, almost turning him as red as his robes. "Don't you dare blame her for your own mistakes."

"Whatever," Harry mumbles.

There is silence for a few seconds as Harry stares at the grain of his desk and Ron regards him coldly. In the distance, there's a loud noise followed by raucous laughter.

"Harry." Harry resolutely refuses to look at his best friend, even though his voice has softened imperceptibly. "We love you. She still loves you. I just want you to apologize."

"....Fuck off. Don't you have work you need to be doing?"

A beat. "Fine. I'll fuck off. Just don't talk to us - especially not 'mione - until you get your shit together, alright?" With that, he turns on his heel and stomps out of Harry's cubicle, not bothering to close the door behind him.

The papers strewn on his desk rustle violently before flying everywhere and suddenly Harry's being drenched by all the papers and files raining down in his office. His hands clench and unclench. Wandless magic tends to get away from him in moments of high emotion. One of the spare quills on his desk splits neatly in half, longways.

 _Fuck them. Fuck them._ He begins to feel very hot all of a sudden. This is what they get, being so annoying. Harry tries to convince himself that this is actually an advantageous development in his friendships with Ron and Hermione: maybe now they'll finally leave me alone. Maybe this will teach them to mind their own business.

Yes, this is good. He isn't going to apologize - not until he's sure that they've learned their lesson, anyways. He just needs some space in the meantime. Harry waves his hand and reorganizes the files to the best of his ability; they silently settle back on his desk in a neat pile. He repairs the quill, but he can still see a little seam where it broke.

It's fine. It'll all be fine.

He doesn't do any work for the rest of the day -  too busy drumming his fingers on his desk, biting his lip, and glancing periodically at his door, convinced that someone was going to bust in at any second.

 

He's the first one out of the office when five o'clock rolls around. As he passes his coworkers' cubicles, he peeks in and sees them sitting on the floor, robes off, stuffing their faces with a quick supper while poring over reports. A few cubicles are completely empty, untouched. Ron's is a veritable mess, but Harry can't tell if it's any more so than usual. With some effort, Harry forces himself to keep moving.

12 Grimmauld Place is quiet and empty when Harry gets in. As usual. He flops on his couch, not bothering to shrug off his robes or changing for his date, and dozes as he waits for a knock at his door.  
As promised, it comes sharp and insistent precisely at 7pm. "Coming," he half-groans, half-shouts at the door. Usually Kreacher is the one to greet guests for Harry, but he's not here tonight for some reason. _Probably visiting the Hogwarts elves_ , Harry thinks. They've all remained close over the years, and sometimes Kreacher spends the night with them, helping them cook and clean.  
Harry flings his door open and Draco Malfoy is standing there, in the flesh, on his doorstep with a bundle of flowers in his hand - Lilies. He's dressed up in a smart fitted shirt, slacks, and overcoat combo, and suddenly Harry can't meet his eyes.  
"Hey."  
"Good evening," Draco thrusts the bouquet toward Harry, "Do you have a vase?"  
"Er, yeah, hang on." He pushes the door open a little wider and takes the bouquet. "You can come in." Then, he turns into his house and searches for something not-ugly to house such a nice gift.   
He's digging through his pantry for an empty jar at least when he hears Draco say from the foyer. "It's just how I remember it."  
"My house?"  
"Yes. I take it you didn't renovate it?" His voice is light, joking.  
Harry manages a weak laugh before grabbing an empty wine bottle hidden in the corner. It'll have to do, he thinks with a grimace. After spelling some water in it and setting the flowers in the makeshift vase, he makes his way back to Draco.   
He's right where Harry left him, not having moved even an inch. When Harry comes in, he diverts his attention from a particularly gruesome troll tooth wall decoration to Harry.   
"Sorry," Harry blurts out. "I can change. It was a long day."  
To Harry's surprise, Draco reaches him in one stride of his long legs and takes Harry's hand, sending tingles up and down his spine. "I think I can bear it for one night. Next time, I'll choose your outfit, if you let me."  
_Next time._ He's already thinking about next time and they haven't even made it out of Harry's house yet. Harry gulps. "O-okay."  
"Let's go, then." Draco shifts from holding Harry's hand to linking their arms together. They exit the door as one and Draco turns on his heel and suddenly Harry is whisked away.  
  
Adore, as it turns out, is an extremely upscale Muggle French restaurant complete with real plants hanging from the rafters, tables lit by candles, and unlimited, fresh baguettes.   
"How did you find this place?" Harry breathes as they slide into their seats and the waitress hands them their menus.  
Draco smiles. "Even when living in the Muggle world, I couldn't quite leave behind my upbringing. My mother loved to cook French cuisine - it was the only cooking she never allowed the house eleves to do growing up."  
The light of the candle flickers across Draco’s face as he speaks, drawing Harry’s attention to the sharpness of his cheekbones, the fullness in his lips…

“Harry? Are you alright?”

Blinking, Harry says, “Yeah. Just tired.”

“You look like it.” Draco adds, “No offense.”

Harry shakes his head. “No, you’re probably right. Things at work have been...hectic.” _And my personal life too. Basically, my entire life is going to shit except for this date with you._

“I empathize. But hopefully this will be a distraction for both of us.” Now that Harry looks closely, he realizes that Draco isn’t doing that much better than he is. The bags under his eyes look darker than they were at Christmas, making his eyes look sunken into his face.

“Yes. A distraction sounds great.”

Draco offers him a small smile. “Excellent.” He changes topics immediately. “Do you have a preferred wine, by the way?”

“Er, no?”

“Fantastic. Then you’re okay with me choosing one for us?”

“Go ahead.”

While Draco busies himself with the extensive looking list of wine on the back of the menu, Harry scans the food items for something he recognizes only to quickly fail because the entire menu is in french.

“Draco?”

“Mm?”

“Do you know french?”

“Yes, I do. Why do you ask?” Harry looks up and meets Draco’s mischievous gaze.

“Wanker.”

“I believe in french you would call me ‘un con.”

Harry grins. “Just tell me what’s what, Draco.”

Thankfully, he proceeds to do just that with minimal extra teasing. When the waitress comes back, Draco orders his fancy wine (You’ll love it, I promise, it’s one of the vineyard’s best years), a dish for himself called ‘Moules Manieres,’ and Harry’s dish, which he described to him as ‘a hodgepodge of meat and potatoes.’

Draco leans in as soon as the waitress leaves to get their wine and place their orders. “So,” he begins, “what do you think so far?”

“About the restaurant?”

“Yes. About this date. About me. Anything.”

Heat rises to his cheeks. “It’s really...nice.” And it really is. The atmosphere is quiet, intimate, practically engineered for romantic dates. It also helps that there aren’t many patrons on a Tuesday night, so the staff seems relaxed and content and the ambient conversation never gets too loud. Harry sips on his glass of ice water to give his hands something to do.

“I’m glad you like it. It’s one of my favourite Muggle restaurants in London.”

“What are your other ones?”

“Little Palace, Viet-Naan - a wonderful fusion place - and Verde, among others. They’re are the ones I visit most often. I’ve even treated my mother at a few of them before, when she visits.”

“Does she visit often?” Harry wonders if this is dangerous territory, but his curiosity gets the best of him.

“Often enough. I mainly go over to her house for tea or supper once every few week.”

“Wow. That sounds nice.”

The waitress comes back with the wine and pours them two glasses before Draco can reply. When she leaves, he takes a sip from his glass and Draco does that same, but not before swirling it around a bit and taking a whiff.

Draco moans after he swallows. “Delightful.”

“It’s pretty good.” Harry has no idea if it’s good or not. He doesn’t drink wine often enough to tell or to care.

“It’s exquisite. I’m tempted to buy a bottle for myself.”

Harry grunts noncommittally. “So, your mum.”

“Yes?”

“She’s doing alright?”

Giving Harry a knowing smirk, Draco drawls, “Yes, Harry, she’s doing alright. Living on her own, gardening, cooking, making friends with her Muggle neighbors. Relaxing by the sea.”

“That’s...good.” Harry doesn’t know what he expected. He vaguely knew that the Malfoy name hasn’t been the same since the War - and likely won’t ever be the same again - but he never bothered to stay up to date on the status of Lucius or Draco or even Narcissa, who save his life and, really, the entire Wizarding world, during the War. He feels guilty for it now; _he_ was the one who vouched for Draco and Narcissa during their trials, after all. When did he stop caring?

Draco looks intensely amused. "Why are you asking?" He takes another sip of wine as he pierces Harry with his intense stare. He's gotten really good at doing that since Hogwarts.

"I-I don't know," Harry stammers, like a fool, "Just wondering. Glad to hear she's well. And you said she’s close to the sea? That’s nice.”

"It is." Draco's voice has suddenly taken on a dreamy quality to it. "I joked to her once that I might consider building an identical cottage right beside hers and live there for the rest of my days. To my horror, she was not immediately opposed." Harry chuckles at that, consciously aware of how Draco's fond smile has settled on him, warming him from the tips of his toes to the ends of his hair.

"What about you? What's your dream home?"

Harry has to think for a little bit before answering. "I don't know. Something similar, I think - and I'm not just saying that. Grimmauld Place is a bit big for me. A cozier place might be a nice change of pace - something like Hagrid's hut could be nice, even."

Draco doesn't wrinkle his nose in disgust like Harry half-expects him to at the mention of Hagrid; instead, he looks thoughtful. "I can understand that. Even if the Manor weren't seized, I think my mother and I would've gotten rid of it anyways. It was too big, even for three people. And not to mention the memories that lived there..." He trails off and takes another sip of wine from his glass.

Neither of the two men speak for a few moments. Draco looks deep in thought, his eyebrows furrowing a little bit, and Harry - well - Harry isn’t sure _what_ to say or _how_ to say it without potentially pushing Draco away.

Luckily, their food comes on two shining silver platters, distracting them momentarily with delicious smells.

Harry’s dish is indeed ‘a hodge-podge of meat and potatoes,’ as Draco described, only the food is more artfully arranged than Harry was expecting a ‘hodge-podge’ to be.

Draco’s turns out to be a bunch of cooked mussels. Harry finds himself entranced by the way Draco methodically sucks out the meat from inside the shell, drinks the sauce leftover, and sips on his wine.

“How is it?” Draco asks Harry as he takes a break from eating and wipes his mouth with the corner of his cloth napkin.

It’s then that Harry realizes that he’s been so busy watching Draco that he hasn’t had more than a few bites to eat yet. Hurriedly, he stuffs some meat slices and potatoes in his mouth, chews, then swallows. “It’s pretty good, actually. I like it.” He isn’t even lying.

“I knew you’d like it,” Draco smiles triumphantly. “See? It’s never too late to experience culture.”

Harry just smiles, shakes his head, and focuses on eating his food.

They eat in comfortable silence for most of the rest of their meal, only occasionally commenting on the food, the restaurant, or asking after each other's lives. At one point their shared connection of Andromeda and Teddy is brought up, and they both agree to all meet up together for supper sometime. _Funny,_ Harry realizes, _this is what Andromeda wanted all along._ Harry and Draco getting along.

Near the end of their meal, Draco suddenly looks up from his food. "Harry."

"Yeah?"

For the first time the entire night, anxiety shows up in Draco's face and he suddenly looks every bit as exhausted as he probably feels. "How did you do it? Protect everyone you love and still save the world?"

The drastic change in topic gives Harry a bit of whiplash. "You mean during the War?"

"Yes."

He thinks. "Well, I did my best. Couldn't protect everyone, though." Mad-Eye Moody. Tonks. Remus. Sirius. Fred. Just thinking about them gives him a tender ache in his chest - it's gotten less piercing over the years, but never has it gone away entirely. He doubts it ever will.

Draco chews on his lip and stares deeply into his empty wine glass, as if there's something left in it.

"Why are you asking?"

He sighs. "Just wondering. I always admired that about you - your protective nature."

"Hermione calls it my 'Hero Complex."

That surprises a laugh out of him. "I suppose you could call it that."

They relapse into silence. Out of the corner of Harry's eye, he sees the waitress coming with a dessert menu, but before she reaches them, a silver Lynx bounds through the walls of the restaurant, startling all the Muggles, and stops at their table.

"Harry," its voice is deep and smooth - Kingsley's - "Emergency meeting, now." The Patronus dissipates. The Muggles around them are rendered wide-eyed and speechless. Without any warning, Draco quickly and efficiently sends _Obliviate_ s toward each of them.

"Go."

"I'm so sorry." Harry tosses his napkin on the table and stands. "I'll make it up to you."

Draco doesn't look particularly angry - he's more concerned than anything. "I'll hold you to that."

Harry leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek. "Thanks." Without waiting for his reaction, Harry sweeps out the restaurant, finds an alleyway, and apparates.

 

Never once, in all the years that Harry's been working with the Auror's, has Kingsley ever called a meeting after hours. Harry knows that he should be worried or even excited at the prospect of some potentially breakthrough update to the Death Eater situation, but instead dread sits in his stomach, making him want to eject all of the food that Draco just treated him to. Pity, he decides as he patiently waits for the elevator to deliver him to the correct floor, is probably what spurred Kingsley to call for him. Maybe he thought Harry would feel jealous if he weren't invited to the meeting. Why else would he call in someone who is wholly un-involved in the entire investigation?

The air is tense when Harry walks into the conference room. No one is sitting, preferring to instead lean against the walls, arms crossed, and eyes darting from Auror to Auror. Ron glances at him when he comes in, but looks away as soon as he recognizes who it is. Harry tries to appear unaffected.

Kingsley beings speaking without any preamble, his tone somehow more serious than the message he sent. “There’s been an attack.” The Aurors shift nervously. “The neo-Death Eaters claimed responsibility for it through a note left at the scene - _Morsmordre_. Our first priority right now is to secure the safety of the victims - Muggle orphans - and to thoroughly investigate the scene.”

He continues to speak and assign specific duties to the teams, but Harry can no longer hear him. _No. It can’t be. There’s no way._

“If there aren’t any questions, we mobilize now.” Kingsley finishes the meeting and the Aurors practically stampede out of the room, voices overlapping and growing volume as they all try to consult with each other and shout orders at the same time. Robards leaves to try to herd them toward the elevator and the apparition point.

“Kingsley.” The Minister of Magic looks up from the pile of papers in front of him.

“Yes, Harry?”

“What orphans were attacked? Are they alright? Where was-”

He holds up a hand and Harry’s mouth swings shut. “It was a War orphanage, Harry. And the casualty report has yet to arrive.”

Harry can physically feel his face go white. “Am I-can I go? And help?”

“Of course. You _are_ an Auror.” He smiles at Harry, but Harry doesn’t smile back.

“Thanks.” He leaves.

 

Harry has never been a very religious person. Wizards aren’t really religious in general - though they celebrate Christmas - and Harry got enough of a taste from his time with the devout Aunt Marge in his youth to turn him off from it. But now, as he’s sprinting through the halls of the Ministry toward the apparition point, he feels himself praying, hoping, wanting to believe that his suspicions aren’t correct. That the twisting feeling in his gut is wrong for the first time in his life.

Though the sun has long set at this point, when Harry apparates to the scene, he has to momentarily shield his eyes from the sudden influx of light. Fire. The building in front of him is on fire and looks like it has been for quite some time; the entire right half has caved into itself and ash and soot and sparks shower onto the street below.

Most of his coworkers have already arrived. Some are securing the area by spelling the Muggle police and firefighters away. Others are sending arcs of water toward the building from their wands. Others are deep in conversation with the bystanders - the witnesses - to the crime. Ron is nowhere to be found.

“Harry Potter! It’s Harry Potter!” Some kind of commotion breaks out from behind Harry, and when he turns to look, a groan escapes his lips, unbidden. A growing group of wizards with enchanted notepads try to huddle forth to speak with Harry, to get the Savior’s comment on the whole situation, and are stopped only by Robards’ level glare. Harry scurries away, ducking his head and hoping no one else will notice him.

As he comes closer to the building, his panic increases. It roots him to the spot until all he can do is watch the fire eat away more and more of the structure. He was right.

_Draco._

He whips his head around but doesn’t see a single head of blonde hair gleaming by the light of the fire. His hand twitches toward his wand, ready to send a Patronus to him, but he catches sight of a group of children a little ways away and immediately runs toward them.

They don’t even turn to look when he approaches. Angelica, the oldest girl, is standing silently holding a sleeping baby close. Dan, the oldest boy, is holding hands with two of his orphan siblings and staring at the ground. The rest are huddled around them, clinging onto each other’s clothing. Their caretaker, Pat, is relaying what happened to an Auror Harry recognizes to be Jones, the newbie who only ever wears Muggle suits to work. In fact, he’s in one now, looking entirely out of place among all the haggard faces and the scarlet Auror robes.

“A-Angelica.”

She starts when she hears her name and turns. Faint recognition flickers in her features. “You’re...Draco’s friend?”

“Yeah. Are you alright?”

The children seem okay on the surface - covered from head to foot in soot and ash and dressed in slightly tattered pajamas, sure, but okay.

Looking closely, there are dried tear tracks on Angelica’s face. Her voice is shaky when she speaks. “We’re alright. We all made it out. Listen-” she reaches out and gently grabs the front of his robes, “do you know where Draco is?”

“Maybe? I-uh-we were just at a restaurant so he might be back home now.”

“Will you call him? We left our phones…” The baby in her arms shifts and frowns in its sleep.

“Ye-yeah. I can do that.” Harry pretends to leave and make a call, but really sends a Patronus Draco’s way, wincing at what his response might be. He tries to make his message seem like everything is alright, but he can’t stop his voice from sounding panicky.

A minute passes. The sirens have gone away and the fire has died down a little bit, but the smoke it generates is still thick in the air.

 _Crack._ Draco Malfoy pops into existence in the middle of all the hubbub, startling everyone. Most of the Aurors don’t know how to react other than stare as Draco spots the kids and immediately rushes over. Harry follows close behind.

The first thing he does is crush all of them into a group hug. The children huddle with him, some breaking out into tears. The baby is awake now, and wails in Angelica’s arms.

“Thank God….” Harry can barely hear Draco’s voice above all the ambient noise. “Thank God…..”

“Draco…” Angelica begins to cry again.

“I know. Shh.. It’s alright now. It’s going to be alright.” He soothes while trying and failing to mask the own fear in his voice.

Pat runs over and joins the hug, even though Jones doesn’t seem quite finished with her. “Thank you for coming. God I-” She takes a shuddery breath. “Thank you.”

Harry doesn’t know what to do, what to say, so he just stands awkwardly to the side and watches the entire exchange.

Slowly, gingerly, Draco extracts himself from the hug after a few minutes. He’s now speaking to the children in tones so hushed that Harry can’t hear, but his face is earnest and serious, and the children’s faces reflect his.

When he’s done, Draco turns and spots Harry. He’s in front of him in a flash.

“May I have a word?” His upper lip is quivering.

“Of course.” Harry leads them to the side, away from children, the Aurors, and the reporters. “Are you okay? I’m so-”

Draco bursts into tears.

“Draco?”

When he speaks, his voice is thin and shaky. “This is m-my fault.”

“What? What are you saying?”

Instead of answering, Draco just continues to cry, turning his face so that the children can’t see.

It feels like his intestines are uncoiling. It feels like his heart is about to burst through his chest.

“The Death Eaters. They c-contacted me. Offered a p-position.”

It feels like all the blood in his body has collected in his head, behind his ears.

“I said no. I said _no._ ” Harry instinctually catches Draco in his arms when he slumps forward. “But I should've known they w-wouldn't give up. Merlin I’m such an _idiot!”_ Sobs rack his body with renewed vigor. He scrabbles at Harry’s robes, clutches onto him with a vice-like grip.

It feels like he’s been hollowed out.

“I di-did this...I did th-this…” Draco begins to repeat the phrase over and over again as he cries. Harry says nothing. Harry has nothing to say.

In the distance, he notices the reporters inch closer and closer, eyes gleaming by the light of the dying fire.

“Draco.”

Draco is unconsolable.

“Y-you need to tell them. The Aurors. They can help you.”

Draco is glaring at him now, tears still leaking out of his eyes. “You think I ha-haven’t already thought of that? When they throw me in Azkaban wh-who will help _them,_ ” he jerks his head in the direction of the orphans.

“You won’t be thrown-”

He cuts Harry off with a snarl, “Given my h-history? You th-think they would believe that I h-had no hand in th-this?”

The reporters almost within earshot now, and Robards is nowhere to be seen. Desperation claws its way out of Harry’s mouth.

“You have no choice,” he whispers fiercely into Draco’s ear, “You have to. For the orphanage. For the kids. The Aurors will protect them. I promise.” Draco shakes in Harry’s arms. “I promise.”

They stay like that for several long moments, holding each other close while Draco shudders and tries to regain control of his breathing. Their embrace is pleasant - perfectly warm for the wintery conditions outside. Harry is surprised it isn’t currently snowing.

A photo is taken of them - by which news outlet, Harry doesn’t know. He doesn’t care.

“O-okay.” Draco whispers. “Okay.” He withdraws from Harry’s hug, leaving him cold. His mouth is set in a tight, grim line. The fire has mostly burnt out by now, but the glowing embers it leaves behind still cast shadows across Draco’s gaunt face.

After briefly squeezing Harry’s hand, Draco marches off toward a gaggle of Aurors in the distance, ignoring the jeers from the reporters and wiping at his face.

There is nothing for Harry to do but to watch him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are really /heating up/ eh? Too soon?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for uploading late! I've been caught up in IRL things. Hope y'all's weekends go well!

Weeks pass but Harry barely notices. The days and nights blend into one - sunrises, sunsets, dawn, dusk, Harry can't tell the difference anymore. All he knows is to lay unsleeping in his bed when it is dark - or when Kreacher gently hints at him to - rise after some time, dress, go to work, and come back and repeat the process when he feels he has sat at his desk for enough to be counted present and working.

In the back of his mind, he's aware that he hasn't spoken to Ron or Hermione in a long time. Or Draco. Or anyone.

Work, surprisingly, is as much as a reprieve as it is a nightmare. On one hand, it gets Harry out of his bed only because he couldn't stand to see Kingsley's or Ron's or Hermione's disappointed faces if he stopped going for good. On the other hand, it and the people there are a constant reminder of the orphanage. Of the Death Eaters. Of Draco.

He catches a little from sitting in on the meetings - small attacks, kidnappings keep happening in the London area, but there haven't been any fatalities yet, the Aurors have caught some of the group's members, but none of the higher-ranking ones. The Muggle Prime Minister has been warned and Jenny, Ash, and Kingsley are currently formulating a defense plan with them.

The entire Ministry buzzes with activity around Harry; after such a high-profile event like the orphanage burning, it was impossible to keep the investigation a secret any longer. The media - save for The Quibbler, which has kept its reporting serious and unbiased - has gone mad from pure glee. They revel in every attack. They rejoice at every failed arrest. But most of all, they salivate at any and all sightings of Harry Potter, the Auror they believe to be at the front of the entire investigation.

Harry only knows because he's resubscribed to all the outlets. It's an act of self-destruction, he's keenly aware of this, but he can't help himself.

His face is splashed on at least two thirds of all their issues with accompanying headlines that range anywhere from 'Harry Potter, Savior Thrice-fold?' to 'Harry Potter's secret relation to neo-Death Eater Jack Willows!'  

The articles themselves, Harry reads in earnest down to every last sentence. He has nothing better to do after all, just sitting alone in his office as his coworkers apparate in and out trying to save Muggles and Muggleborn people.

They often speculate about Harry's role in the entire ordeal: a spy? a mediator? a leader? a lead investigator? The theories run as wild as they want them to and the public snaps it all up; the first issue of the Prophet that broke the news was almost impossible for anyone to get their hands on, it ran out of print that quickly.

Often, Harry doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry after binge reading those articles. Laugh at the absurdity of it all? At the foolish way the media is running itself to the ground with its overactive imagination? Or cry because of how far they are from the truth, and how close they are to Harry’s fantasies?

In his trainee days, Harry had imagined his future life with the Aurors vividly. There would be danger, the stakes would be high - it wouldn't phase him because that's all he's known his entire life. He wouldn't want to start out at a high level due to his name - no, he wanted to earn a position as a leader. He’d envisioned twirling in his scarlet robes, firing spell after spell from his wand. He’d envisioned himself dashing through the alleys, getting mud all over his boots, and taking down a suspect. He’d envisioned himself grabbing a beer with friends after closing a hard case and going home to Ginny and his children and falling asleep feeling warm and wanted.

He did not envision this: doing paperwork for a living, going asleep alone every night, and living only because he doesn't have enough energy to do anything else.

Harry wonders how Draco is doing, but never owls him. He hopes that he's okay. That the children and Pat are doing okay as well. He wonders how they're carrying on with their lives even after everything they’ve known has turned into ash. Sometimes he even envies them; at least they have a concrete reason to want to cry, to want to disappear. 

 

"...Yeah. Yeah, it's Draco Malfoy - can you believe it?"

In the middle of a crowded elevator, Harry Potter is stunned out of his reverie.

"Incredible...to think that this is what he's been doing since Azkaban..."

"I know! He seems almost rehabilitated now!"

The entire elevator is silent save for the two witches squished in the corner.

"Anyways, I wish I could go but apparently it's supposed to be Muggles-only."

"Really? That's too bad."

"I hope he puts something on for us next, I would love to contribute to the cause."

One of the witches drops her voice but it's an elevator, so everyone can still hear her. "Do you think we could...sneak in? When is it anyways?"

Her companion giggles. "Can you even pass as a Muggle? And it's this Friday at 7, I believe."

The elevator door opens before her friend can respond, and the two witches somehow push their way out and onto their floor. They walk away chatting amiably and as soon as the doors close, silence descends once more. A wizard taps his foot impatiently.

Friday. 7pm. Harry doesn't know where exactly it will be held but he has a good enough guess. He doesn't even know exactly what is happening at that time and place but he knows that Draco is going to be there and that's enough to convince him.

He spends the rest of the day half-dazed with delight at his desk, filling out paperwork at a snail's pace. For the first time in a while, he knows the current day of the week: Wednesday. Which means the event is in two days. _I get to see Draco again in two days._

Just that thought alone manages to send Harry into a fairly peaceful sleep that night, the first one he has in weeks.

Friday at 7pm can't come fast enough for Harry. If time were crawling along before, it seems to be barely inching its way now. He can't properly focus on his work - not that he really could before, but it's even worse now. Ron doesn't eat lunch with him anymore to distract him. Thursday is unbearable. Friday is almost excruciating.

After work, he apparates home, shrugs off his robes and shrugs on a Muggle coat, and spells his hair blonde to lessen the chances that someone will recognize him. It's worked a few times before when he wanted to run errands unbothered or play in public with Rose, so he figures it's worth a shot. The fact that it's apparently an all-Muggle event helps his chances at anonymity greatly.

With a few minutes to spare, Harry apparates over and runs down Ravel Avenue toward The Amber Tap. He quickly realizes that he should have lined up earlier.

It seems foolish to classify the Christmas Day crowd as 'large' now. While the line was out the door that night, it's coiled tightly up and down the street tonight, and the club itself seems like it's bursting at the seams. The two bouncers at the door are working frantically trying to let in as many people as possible while also ordering the people already inside to make room.

A bit annoyed with himself for not thinking forward enough, Harry begrudgingly joins the back of the line and sinks into his coat, seeking warmth.

The Muggle in lines are excited, but not as much as they were at the Christmas concert. The wind makes it hard for Harry to listen in, so he just watches their stony, serious faces as they talk to each other.

When he finally makes it into the warmth of the club, he realizes that the mood inside is similar; the conversations are subdued and the people move with less energy than they did before, preferring to stand or sit in one place and stare at the empty stage.

Harry's drawn to the crowd gathered at the left wall and when he draws near he can make out what the banner on the wall reads: 'Draco Malfoy's Benefit Concert for the Harmony Orphanage; Donate Here.' The Muggles are gathered around the table directly below it, which is being manned by the club owner - Belle, Harry remembers to be her name.

On the opposite wall, the bar seems to be closed and Ava, the bartender is nowhere to be found. Harry wonders why for a second before immediately spotting a group of children seated a table near the front. The orphans. Pat is sitting with them, chatting and looking after them. Ava is talking to Dan with a wide smile on her face. Draco isn't with them, but Harry assumes he's busy preparing backstage.

On cue, the lights dim and people begin to find their seats. Harry slips into a small table at the very back of the club; he knows he should greet Belle, Ava, Pat, and the children, but he convinces himself that there's no time. That they're busy right now and he shouldn't bother them.

Footsteps. In seconds, Draco Malfoy steps onto the stage and the crowd goes dead silent - even the children stop squirming in their seats and stare, fixed, at the stage.

He’s dressed in a simple black tuxedo this time - no sequins, no loud colors. Is Harry imagining things, or has he lost weight? The jut of his cheekbones seems sharper and his waist seems smaller.

"Good evening," he speaks into the microphone. _Was his voice always this husky?_

"Thank you for coming tonight. I know it's last minute and everything so I appreciate your support for not just me but most importantly for the little ones up front-" he gestures at the table all the orphans are sitting at. The audience cheers and applauds and the children give them shy waves back.

Draco takes a deep breath before continuing. "As you probably already know, they lost their home - the Harmony Orphanage - a few weeks ago. This concert is to raise money to buy a new, better home for them."

Somehow, the entire club is quiet, everyone collectively holding their breath.

"These kids are very dear to my heart. I’ve seen them nearly everyday for the past ten years. I changed their diapers. I watched them grow up. And without them and Patricia, their caretaker, I don't think I would be where I am now. They have given so much to me," Draco pauses, choking up a little. "This is the least I can do."

When Harry glances over to the orphan's table, he sees Pat rubbing at her eyes.

"So tonight I'm going to play several of my own compositions - all of which exist thanks to the upright piano that burned down with the orphanage. I hope you enjoy them, and I hope you consider donating. Thank you." He gives a slight bow amid deafening applause and takes a seat at the piano. After a moment, he flexes his wrists and begins to play.

Harry doesn't remember the last time he was so captivated by music. Or by anything, for that matter. It seems that every time Draco's fingers touch the keys, more than just music springs out: joy, light, warmth. These abstract feelings engulf Harry in waves but he finds that he already knows how to swim, how to breathe easy in them.

A sense of calm settles in the club. Faces relax and turn toward the light of the stage. Legs stop shaking and hands unclench. Even the baby is completely silent and still.

Vaguely, Harry realizes that Draco's probably working his magic again, but it feels different from the Christmas concert. Then, Draco's magic teased the corners of his consciousness with a certain hesitation. Now, it's confident, controlled, and Harry can't help but to be swept up in it.

He watches Draco carefully - watches his gleaming hair falling in waves onto his forehead and neck, the way his knuckles bend, his polished dress shoe reflecting light as it periodically presses the pedal underneath the piano. The line of his shoulders was tense before, but relaxed now, allowing him a freedom of movement as he plays. At times, Harry even spies a small smile playing at his lips after a particularly fast series of notes.

 _He’s happy. Thank Merlin_. Harry slumps in his chair, exhausted all of a sudden.

In the corner, people continuously stream in from the outside. All the tables have been filled, so now there's a line of people posted on the back wall and utterly enraptured by Draco's playing.

Time flies when Draco's playing; before Harry knows it, it's late into the night and Draco just lifted his hands from the piano from the last time - with a flourish - and the audience practically jumps to their feet as one in passionate applause.

Draco is smiling as he bows, sweat flying. "Thank you for coming and good night! And please consider donating!" He calls into the microphone before walking off. The applause continues long after he's gone.

Almost immediately after he finishes, a line forms at the donation table. Both Belle and Ava are running it now, along with one of bouncers, but even between the three of them they can't accept the checks and cash fast enough.

Harry opts to stand to the side and wait for the line to die down before approaching. After a few minutes, Draco emerges from backstage and his fans swarm him. This time, however, they don't seem to be asking for autographs.

"Incredible, fantastic performance, as always. I'm so sorry to hear about the orphanage..." An elderly Muggle woman says.

A Muggle man with a moustache jumps in, tears in his eyes, "I've been following you for ages. Tonight was indubitably your best concert yet. Thank you so much."

Draco smiles gracefully. "I should be thanking all of you for coming and supporting the kids. Thank you for caring."

"Of course."

"Anything for them, for you. You're such a sweetheart," the elderly woman croons.

His fans come and go and Harry watches all of their interactions. It seems that many of his longtime, most devoted fans showed up tonight, judging from the way Draco would banter with them as if he's met them many times before. Many are crying when they approach them. Some burst into tears as soon as they hug him. The atmosphere is significantly more serious that it was during the Christmas concert, but the level of the fans' love remains the same.

Draco makes sure to address each of them personally to thank them for coming, for listening, for donating. He looks exhausted - hair plastered with sweat, bags deep and cutting on his face, and shoulders slightly slouched - but still he forges on. At the donation table, Belle and Ava begin filling up what Harry counts as their fifth cardboard box of the night with notes and checks. Harry can only imagine what they've already received electronically.

With horror, Harry realizes that Draco and his gaggle of fans have gotten dangerously close to his location without him noticing. He doubts that Draco will be fooled by his pitiful disguise, so he quickly ducks away, toward the donation table.

He waits until Belle and Ava are distracted processing other donations before approaching the bouncer manning the table. In the end, he donates a couple thousand pounds from his Muggle bank account, casts one last look at Draco, and pushes out the door into the quiet street.

Five years. Five years worth of hard work and forging connections with Muggles from all walks of life. Five years worth of studying music, composing, and conducting research. Five years of rebuilding his life from scratch and this isn't even all he has to show for it.

Draco Malfoy is a wonder.

Harry Potter doesn't know how he could ever compare.


	12. Chapter 12

The weekend begins and ends in the same thought, and before he knows it Harry's sitting in a Monday morning Auror briefing with barely any memory of the last two days. He might have gotten drunk Friday night after the concert - he only knows this because he remembers the pain of his hangover the next day. But Saturday and Sunday? He didn't drink; he doesn't think so, at least. All he remembers are the vague impressions of being smothered in his sheets, drinking something warm that Kreacher had brought up to him, and watching the light touch his curtains and disappear again several times.

"Over the weekend, a few teams managed to bring in several of the group's lookouts posted around the city. Good work." Kingsley says. The Aurors responsible barely have enough energy to preen at the praise.

"However," he continues, "they aren't divulging any information. Remember: even if they do not say anything willingly, we can no longer use either Veritasium or any Unforgivables to force the information out. I trust that you will exercise restraint in this, though I understand your frustration."

Keith Edwards flinches at Kingsley's words and the other Aurors glance at him. It's a poorly kept secret among the entire Ministry that two years ago, Edwards had infamously Crucio'd a suspect until she went half-mad and had to spend several months in St. Mungo's before she could even open her mouth again. It was an objectively heinous act, but technically he wasn't doing anything wrong because of the sheer power that Auror's wielded at that time. Due to Hermione, Ron, and Harry collectively speaking out and meeting with Kingsley, a rule against torture and coercion was finally added to the Auror's rulebook. But it still happens behind closed doors.

The only thing stopping Kingsley from firing Edwards was Robards; the arsehole  vouched for Edward's innocence, painting him as some novice Auror who didn't know any better even though he joined the force around the same time that Harry did. In the end, Kingsley's diplomatic nature won out, and he allowed Edwards to keep working with a strong warning and nothing else. Harry remembers the night they found out Edwards was still working in the Ministry; he, Ron, and Hermione spent the night drinking and cursing him for generations to come. 

Though Kingsley's pointed reprimand would have given both Ron and Harry much joy in the past, neither of the two men look any shade of delighted now; Ron is leaning against the wall with his eyes barely open and Harry can't seem to focus on anyone or any of Kingsley's words - the entire conference room seems like it’s spinning.

"Moving on - Robards has an important update on the recent attacks."

He turns the meeting over to Robards, who looks as cranky as always. "Listen up," he snaps, and a few heads jerk away from the edge of sleep, "They've changed their tactics a little bit. The attacks over the weekend took us a little while to attribute to them because they posed them to look like Muggle on Muggle crime. This means they probably know that we've been in contact with the Muggle Prime Minister and they're trying to throw us off, confuse us. We can't let this happen.” He pauses to let the words set in. “From now on, we’re redirecting our focus on defense and taking out the leaders - no more arresting the small fish.” He proceeds to give out specific orders to teams and Harry takes the chance to tune him out.

Suddenly, the Aurors in the room begin packing up their files and leaving, many yawning and stretching on their way out. Harry stands, stiff, and trudges out with them without casting a glance at Ron, Kingsley, or Robards. 

Since they’re shifting their focus on the leaders of the group, Harry supposes there’s no point in him continuing to research and fill out the files on the lower members. He disappears them with a lazy wave of his hand. And since he’s already finished the files on the leaders, Harry supposes he has nothing else to do.

Even from his corner office, Harry can still hear the small stampede and rise in voices whenever a new attack occurs - which happens once every few hours or so. His hand twitches toward his wand everytime it happens, as if it has a mind of its own, but he wills himself to stay put. 

_ There’s no point,  _ He tries to convince himself,  _ If I went, I would just get in the way. I haven’t dueled in so long. I’ve probably forgotten all the first-aid spells.  _ He closes his eyes and breathes in the stale office air. Suddenly, his robes feel stifling, so he takes them off and leaves them in a heap at the foot of his chair.

_ I’d be useless. Useless.  _ Somehow, Harry is the last one out of the office that night. 

 

“Are you going?”

“To what?”

It’s several days later, and Harry is stuck in the elevator unwillingly listening to Ministry gossip yet again. 

“The concert Draco Malfoy’s putting on.”

Harry’s heart skips a beat.

“What?” The wizard sounds scandalized at the name. “Isn’t he in Azkaban?”

_ A common misconception.  _

“No, no, he got out ages ago.” The witch continues. “You really haven’t heard? A War orphanage he was volunteering at was burned down by the neo-Death Eaters a couple of weeks ago. So now the Ministry is sponsoring a fundraiser concert for him. All Ministry employees are invited.”

“Wow…”

“I know. Shocking, isn’t it? Turned out pretty differently from his father after all.”

“Pity he’ll never know.” The wizard and witch snicker at the thought of Lucius Malfoy: Kissed and rotting away in Azkaban, blissfully unaware of how much of a Muggle lover his son has become. Harry begins to feel a bit sick.

Thankfully, they get off on the next floor, leaving him alone in the elevator.

He never caught when or where the concert was being held, and even if he knew, he’s not sure he would actually go. Going to the Amber Tap the other night was a mistake; seeing the orphans, Belle, Ava, all the Muggle fans, and  _ Draco,  _ was too much. Going to a Ministry-specific event where Harry won’t be able to get away with spelling his hair a different color and going undercover will no doubt be worse. 

The elevator doors open on his floor, but when he steps out, he walks the opposite direction from his office. 

Down the hallway, take a right, then left, and he’s at Kingsley’s office door. It’s closed, so he knocks.

“Come in.”

Harry pushes the door open. He doesn’t often visit Kingsley’s office, but it looks much the same as he remembers it; massive bookshelves lining the sides filled with ancient tomes, an ornately carved desk, and two plush chairs placed in front of it. Kingsley looks surprised to see Harry, if his one raised eyebrow is any indication.

“Harry. Good to see you. Take a seat.” He gestures at the chairs. “Would you like anything to drink?”

“No, thanks,” Harry mutters as he slides into chair on his right.

“Very well.” Folding his hands in his lap, Kingsley cocks his head. “So brings you to my office today?”

Silence reigns as Harry struggles to find his voice, the right words. 

“I’m quitting,” he finally blurts out.

There is no indication that Kingsley is shocked or displeased at Harry’s words, so he takes it as a sign to keep talking.

“I don’t want to work here anymore. I’m not doing anything important, anyways. The department won’t miss me.”

He leans forward slightly. “What makes you think that?”

Harry is frustrated. “The fact that I’m not a  _ real  _ Auror? That I’m just a desk jockey?”

“Do you want to get back into the field?”

“No,” Harry replies immediately, “ _ No.  _ Merlin. We already know how that would end up. I’d just get in the way.”

Kingsley seems to consider him for a long moment, his eyes kind, warm. Harry forces himself to break eye contact.

"I understand where you're coming from, but I can't accept your resignation."

"Wha-"

"Why don't you take a few weeks off? To clear your head."

"I-"

"It's been a stressful time for all of us. There's no shame in taking a break and resting."

"But-"

"Harry," Kingsley peers intently at him, his tone becoming very serious all of a sudden, "Please, think this over. You are not a burden to this department. I don't want you to make a decision you may regret later."

Harry doesn't know how to reply to that. He wants to argue, wants to scream, want to shake Kingsley until he sees the truth, that Harry is useless and unworthy of calling himself an Auror, but he's too tired. He can't fight anymore.

"Fine," he bites out while standing up.

"I hope you have a good week, Harry, and I'll see you soon." Harry wishes he could spell the smile off of Kingsley's face.

Harry grunts in response and leaves, letting the door slam behind him.

And just like that, fifteen minutes after he clocked into work, he walks back out again for the last time. He knows he's never coming back. Soon, Kingsley will realize that as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit short, and I apologize about that. The next one is gonna have a little surprise though, so stay tuned :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little POV change ;)

Had someone told Draco Malfoy ten years ago that he would be traveling to the Ministry for a meeting regarding a Ministry-sponsored concert in which he will be the star performer, he would have laughed in their face. Then cried, probably. Then socked them square in the nose.

Ten years ago, Draco was in Azkaban, trying to catch a few winks of sleep every night amid nightmares, writing to his mother, and taking care of his father, who, after he'd been Kissed, was put in his cell with him and was for all intents and purposes a corpse. A corpse who needed to be fed, bathed, and helped to the bathroom.

He had no future; he knew this. In some ways, his time in Azkaban was the most peaceful time of his life - there was a set schedule and routine that he followed day in and day out. The most unpredictable thing that happened to him on a daily basis were the insults his guards would sling at him, and by the end of his sentence they had gotten quite creative. His personal favorite was: 'The Dark Lord's Sock Puppet.”

He thought he would never be able to walk down Diagon Alley again, let alone be allowed inside the Ministry of Magic. And yet, here he is, dressed in the nicest robes he owned - which still has a hole in the right pocket, signing in at the front desk while trying to juggle the plans he’d drew up for his concert the night before.

Eyes follow him everywhere - down to the small movements of his hand scribbling his signature with a quill. The receptionist hasn't stopped glaring at him since he walked up.

"I'm finished." He offers her the paperwork and she snatches it out of his hand so quickly it the parchment almost cuts him.

She barely casts an eye over the pages before muttering. "Thank you. Now please wait for someone to come and escort you to the meeting room."

"Can I not go up on my own? I believe I know the way..."

Her eyes narrow and her lips curl. "I'm sorry sir, but you'll have to wait. We wouldn't want our guests getting  _ lost _ ."

Draco glances around him at all the wizards and witches passing the front desk and heading the elevators without even sparing the receptionist a glance. At one point, a mother and her two children walk past without even registering. 

There's no use in getting worked up over something like this, Draco has learned over the years. It'll only make him feel miserable. And perhaps he deserves it, after Muggles and Muggleborn have been treated even worse for centuries. 

So he bites his tongue and awkwardly stands to the side and watches the central fountain and how the water arcs from statue-Harry's wand. The sculptor obviously hadn't done the Savior's looks justice. Draco knows that his hair is wilder than that, his shoulders broader, his eyes more intense. Same goes for Granger and Weasley - both of their noses don’t seem quite right-

"Malfoy?"

It's Weasley. Ron Weasley has come into work and is marching up to him.

"Weasley."

"Please, Ron. What are you doing here?"

Ron looks positively a wreck - bags under his eyes, Auror robes wrinkled to all hell, and hair so greasy it seems like he hasn't showered in a week. Draco tries not to breathe in through his nose too much.

"I'm here to discuss my plans for the benefit concert."

"Oh! Right. I heard about that. Why are you standing here though?"

Draco inclines his head toward the receptionist, who is currently chatting brightly with a young wizard in a top hat. "She insisted that I wait for an escort to my meeting, in case I got lost."

Ron grimaces. "I'll go talk to her." And he does, interrupting her flirtatious conversation. "Gretchen, I'll be taking Draco up, alright?"

She waves her hand in outright dismissal, "Sure, fine."

Ron beckons Draco to follow him with his hand. "Come on."

They cross the lobby to the elevators together.

"So," Draco begins, "How have you been?"

Ron lets out a long breath. "...Busy. Really busy. Thanks for coming forward, by the way."

Per Harry's insistence, Draco had confessed to the Aurors that he'd been extended an invitation to the neo-Death Eater group, and that the torching of the orphanage was their revenge because he turned them down. He wasn't sure how helpful his account was - the invitation was sent to him anonymously via owl - but the Aurors seemed immensely grateful for any kind of information that might help their investigation. They didn't arrest him like they thought they would, in the end. Draco suspects either Harry or Ron had a hand in that, but didn't have definite proof. Either way, he was grateful to continue walking a free man.

"It had to be done," Draco replies simply.

They step onto the empty elevator together.

"What floor?"

Draco checks the letter that was sent to him. "First." Ron presses the button and they wait.

"How is Harry?"

For a moment, Draco thinks Ron hadn't heard him, but then he finally speaks. "I don't know. He's taking time off right now."

"What? Aren't the Aurors extremely busy?"

Ron's smile is crooked. "Yeah, we are. I tried to get him to come back when I heard from Kingsley he'd left but...he wasn't really in any condition to."

The floors pass.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I don't know if it's my place to say..."

"Is he okay?" Panic begins to rise in his throat.

"Yeah! I think so. He's alright, just...tired, I guess. Oh, this is us." The doors open and the two men step out. "This way." Draco follows Ron's lead down the quiet hallway lined with portraits whose eyes follow them as they pass.

"We - 'Mione and I - are just worried because when he gets like this, he doesn't leave the house much. Kind of becomes a hermit."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Usually 'Mione can convince him to come out of hiding but their last conversation didn't go so well. He still hasn't apologized."

"Oh." Friends fight; it's a normal, healthy part of friendship. Draco and Pansy regularly get into spats over nothing that usually end in getting wine drunk and hugging each other. But the thought of Harry fighting with the rest of the Golden Trio....is unsettling, to say the least.

Suddenly, an audacious, brilliantly Slytherin idea grips him. "Maybe I can convince him. To leave his house, I mean. I could invite him to the concert."

Ron halts in his step and claps his hands together. "Draco, that's brilliant!"

Draco is too busy being knocked off his feet from being complimented by a Weasley to preen. 

"It'll get him out of the house and it'll give you some more publicity. And he's probably going to say yes because you're asking."

"I-I-" Draco isn't sure what to make of his last sentence.

"Here we are." The stop in front of two oak doors. "You're probably meeting in here."

"Thank you," he says, gripping his papers tighter. The unfortunate part about the interior design of the Ministry is that all the doors look more or less the same, and the last time he was face to face with one of them was when he was being led out the Wizagamont courtroom to the ferry to Azkaban.

"Good luck," Ron tells him brightly, "Not that you need it. And let me know how convincing Harry goes?" 

Mutely, Draco nods, and pushes the doors open.

Thankfully, the inside of the room is nothing like his trial room. Its ceiling is much lower for one, the space smaller, and instead of having to sit at the bottom and look up at all the wizards and witches judging him, he sits at a conference table and remains eye level with all the people in the room.

And what is the most different are all the smiles.

“Welcome,” A smart witch stands and extends her hand. “I’m Darcy Brown. Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Malfoy.”

When he grasps her hand, he’s surprised by how warm it is. “Nice to meet you. And call me Draco, please.”

One by one, the rest of the people in the room introduce themselves to Draco without batting an eye at his name. And when he rolls up his sleeves trying to cool off a bit, no one even glances at his Dark Mark. It’s shocking, positively shocking, how normally he’s being treated. By wizards and witches.

The meeting goes exceedingly well; everyone is receptive to nearly all of Draco’s ideas from the decor to the food to his proposed program. He struggles to understand why at first, but quickly realizes that this concert will benefit the Ministry too. A fundraising concert for the poor Muggle orphans who tragically lost their home due to a nefarious neo-Death Eater attack will generate much needed positive publicity for the Ministry once they put their name on it. Draco doesn’t mind being blatantly used in this way, as long as he can access the deep pockets of the Ministry employees and other high society wizards and witches who will most likely be in attendance. 

At one point, Draco mentions the idea of the Savior of the Wizarding World coming and showing his support for the cause, possibly leading to high donation rates, but his team was strangely hesitant.

“Well...that would be very effective, yes, but we probably won’t be able to contact him.”

“What? Why?”

Darcy looks apologetic and slightly awkward. “He seems to be busy with the ongoing investigation. Rumor has it he’s been tasked with a secret mission, and mustn’t be disturbed.”

_ Interesting.  _ “Alright. I’ll try to reach out to him with that in mind.”  _ They don’t know he’s not at work. They don’t know anything.  _

When the meeting lets out, Draco wastes no time in apparting to Grimmauld place.

He doesn’t think it’ll ever not feel strange to see the Black family house that he’d visited several times in his childhood. It’s smaller than he remembers it, and older, too. Obviously, Harry hasn’t made much effort in the house’s upkeep over the years. Draco knocks on the door once, twice, without a response. He’s half tempted to call the Aurors when finally, he hears movement on the other side of the door.

“Who is it?” Harry’s voice sounds gruffer than it was before -  _ is he sick?  _

“It’s Draco.”

Surprise evident: “Draco?”

“Yes, that is my name.”

Harry doesn’t speak for a moment. Then, the door bolts slide unlocked, the handle turns, and the door swings open to reveal Harry Potter standing barefoot in his foyer with nothing but a pair of Muggle sweatpants on. Draco resolutely does not look anywhere other than his bright green eyes.

“Come in.” The door opens a little wider for Draco to step in, and when he does, he almost immediately steps back out.

Somehow, the state of the house is worse than the last time he saw it - when he picked Harry up for their date - which is really saying something. The piles of clothing littering the floor of the sitting room are visible even from the foyer, as well as the discarded take out containers cluttered on the coffee table. There’s a foul smell running through the entire house, practically burning Draco’s nostrils. 

“Do you want something to drink…?” Harry asks, rubbing his neck.

“Merlin, Harry. What’s happened? It smells like pixie dung in here - no offense,” he quickly adds. Sometimes it’s impossible to hold his scathing insults to himself, especially when they’re completely justified.

The Savior has the sense to look sheepish, at least. “Sorry. Wasn’t expecting guests.”

_ Indeed, it seems like he was expecting more rats to come than human beings.  _ “It’s fine,” he says, trying not to breathe through his nose too much. “I’m not going to stay long, anyways. I came to invite you to the Ministry-sponsored benefit concert I’m putting on next Friday. It’s to raise money to rebuild the orphanage.”

“I...I can’t. I’m a bit busy.”

Draco tries not to let his disappointment show. “With what? Ron told me that you were taking time off.” 

His words might have come across more judgemental than he intended. “Fuck.” Harry sighs and rubs his eyes. “Fine. Yeah, I haven’t been going to work. I just think it would be better if I didn’t go to the concert.”

“Are you not comfortable with the publicity?” Draco can certainly empathize with that. Maybe he should have listened to Belle and Ava and Pat and invited Harry to the Muggle-only concert after all.

“...Something like that,” he mutters, shifting from foot to foot. His eyes keep avoiding Draco’s, and his hands are shoved in his pants pockets. 

“Harry? Is something wrong?”

“No. Do you want something to drink?”

“You already asked me that.”

He winces. “I did? Sorry.”

Tentatively: “...Are you okay?”

It’s almost like Draco had hit him, with the way Harry flinches. “Not you too,” he mutters.

“When are you returning to work?”

“I’m quitting.”

“I-what? Right now?”

“I quit a few days ago.”

“I thought you were on leave.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m never going back.”

“Why not?”

Harry bites his lip. “I wasn’t a real Auror anyways. I’m a fraud. And a liability. I don’t even do anything - just paperwork. It’d be better if I was out of their way.”

Draco Malfoy does not have time for melodrama, he never had the patience for it. But he can’t quite bring himself to admonish Harry for his dramatics. “I’m sure that’s not true.” 

“It is.”

Neither man says anything for a long, strained moment. 

“I-I’m not like you.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Oh? And what am I like?”

Harry’s eyebrows furrow, his eyes still glued to his bare feet. “Strong. Brave.”

“You must be joking,” Draco blurts out. If the situation weren’t so heavy, he would’ve thrown his head back, roaring with laughter. To think that there would come a day when the most famous Gryffindor in history would practically call him one.

“It’s true. You’re doing so much for the orphans, spiting the Death Eaters...while all the so-called ‘Chosen One’ can do is be a piece of  _ shit, _ ” He spits out the last part of his sentence. 

_ Merlin.  _ Draco knows he’s one to talk, but Harry’s self-esteem seems so low it’s pathetic. 

Harry turns and begins to walk to his sitting room. “Please, just leave. I can’t be the hero anymore.”

Fifteen years ago Draco Malfoy would’ve given up a leg to hear the big-headed ‘Savior of the Wizarding World’ say those words. Now, they make him feel sick to his stomach.

But still he does not leave; Draco isn’t one to stand rejection.

“Harry, wait.” He follows Harry and stands in the doorway as he crumples onto the couch. “I’m not strong. I’ve never been, remember?” His throat feels a bit dry, so he swallows thickly. “The concert, all of that, I’m not doing it to be a hero. I’m doing it because I must. Because they’re part of my family.”

No response. No indication that Harry is even listening anymore. He just continues to sink into his lumpy couch, staring ahead into space. Draco tries not to let his fear bleed through to his voice, something he’s gotten quite good at after hosting the Dark Lord in his house and being jailed in Azkaban. 

“I’m sure you would do the same if  _ your  _ family were in danger. In fact, you’ve practically done it before, haven’t you?”

It takes a few seconds for Harry to process his words, and when he does, his reply is heated. “But I don’t  _ have  _ a family! No one to fight for! Not anymore. Not since the War…” Is Draco hearing things, or is Harry actually choked up?

“Bullshit.” Apparently, one thing that hasn’t changed about Harry since Hogwarts is how full of shit it sometimes is. “That’s absolute bullshit. You have the Weasley’s. You have your friends - Hermione? Ron? Andromeda and Teddy? You haven’t lost everything. You call me brave, but where did your own  _ Gryffindor  _ bravery go?” Draco taunts, “Look at you, Harry. When did you become so  _ pathetic? _ ” 

Draco knows he’s gone too far, as he often does without meaning to, but Harry doesn’t look angry, or even insulted. In fact, he practically deflates at Draco’s words. 

“You’re right,” he whispers, sounded more broken than Draco has ever heard him. 

Heat rises to his cheeks.  _ What is wrong with him?  _ He thinks angrily. He’s tried everything, but still Harry looks like someone strangled his childhood Kneazle: devastated. “Fine, if you want to mope around all day, then who am I to stop you. It’s none of my business, anyways,” Draco quips before turning on his heel and leaving. “Enjoy your unemployment,” he calls over his shoulder before slamming the front door.

It’s snowing again when he steps out, and hordes of the neighboring Muggle children have come out in the puffy, colorful monstrosities that Muggles call ‘winter coats.’  _ Though, they do look kind of cute, waddling around like little Pygmy Puffs.  _ He steps off Harry’s front porch and considers his options. The additional publicity from Harry’s presence at the concert seems to be impossible to achieve, now, but Draco finds himself not as annoyed by the setback as he feels he should be. Mostly, he just feels something unpleasant and heavy in his gut, in his chest. 

After casting one last look at the Black family house, dilapidated and lonely, Draco apparates back to his flat. 

It’s a modest place, especially in comparison to the Manor - consisting of a sitting room with the coziest couch he’s ever experienced, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a small bedroom. The essentials. Plus, it’s located in a Muggle neighborhood, so it’s fairly quiet: no loud magical accidents or pops of apparition that can be heard through the thin walls. His only complaint is that sometimes his neighbor would fuck her girlfriend quite loudly, but the couple is so nice to him - making sure to invite him to all their house parties and even bringing him leftovers because they know he’s living alone and working nights - that he doesn’t mind that much. 

He hangs his coat on his coat stand, untucks his shirt, and stretches. The day is still young. And he needs to shake off any and all thoughts about Harry Potter. Draco doesn’t have time to waste, so sits at his small keyboard and gets started on practicing for the concert. 

Even if Harry doesn’t come, Draco will still play. Anything for the kids.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! By this time next week I'll be in China visiting relatives, and I'll be over there for a few weeks. I'm expecting my update schedule not to change too much - still Mon/Wed/Fri - but the timing might be very off due to the massive time zone difference so I apologize in advance for that. Anyways, please enjoy Chapter 14! :)

It's been a while since the last time he was so busy, Draco realizes while in the middle of rising from his quick nap to go visit the kids. He'd been staying up perfecting his pieces and honing his magic - intertwining the two requires precision and razor-focus, which Draco is perfectly capable of even in the dead of night. 

But yes, the last time his schedule was so full was in the early days after his release from Azkaban. He was trying to juggle working part-time Muggle jobs, applying for full-time ones, volunteering at the orphanage as part of his sentence, and ensuring that he and his Mother didn't starve. And he was successful with all of it - save the handful of nights that he went to bed hungry and craving a treacle tart so intensely that his toes curled.

He dresses quickly, picking out a conservatively cut gray sweater and accompanying blue scarf. It's still snowing heavily outside, and will likely continue all throughout the day and into the night - if the heavy clouds hanging in the sky are any indication. 

_ Unfortunate _ , he thinks while threading his arms through his coat and sliding his feet into his shoes, as snow means that the children will insist on dragging him into the cold to watch them build snow forts and snowmen and the sort. A particularly daring one - Angelica, most likely - might even pelt him with a few lumpy snowballs as a joke. 

Draco exits his apartment, waves at one half of the lesbian couple living next door who's taking down the wreath from their front door, and sets off to the orphan's temporary home: an apartment a few blocks down that Draco has slightly, so as not to raise suspicions, magically enlarged.

He’d promised not to - sworn up and down to Pat and Belle and Ava that he would use the funds they’d raised at the Amber Tap's benefit concert to pay the rent - but Draco's a Slytherin. Since when has he kept his promises?

Paying out of pocket isn't much of a burden on him financially; he's only slightly tapping into the emergency fund that he's been saving up for the last ten years, but this certainly meets the qualifications of an emergency. And besides, the more money they keep from the concert, the faster he can buy them a bigger, better home.

He climbs the stairs and stops at the unassuming door at the end of the hallway and rings the doorbell. 

A few seconds later, the door is thrown wide. It's Dan. "Draco!"

"Dan, what did I tell you about checking who it is before opening the door?" Draco admonishes him fondly.

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles, "Come in. Pat's in the washroom I think."

Draco steps in and surveys the scene. _ Not too bad.  _ The children all seem to be present, whether laying around in the sitting room or up to mischief further into the apartment. Thankfully, most of the orphans are a bit grown now. Draco dreads to think what would have happened if it had all been babies and toddlers swaddled in their cribs when the orphanage burned. 

Most of them are preoccupied with their newly purchased Muggle cellphones - courtesy of Draco - the screens flashing and emitting all kinds of sound.   
"Hey Draco," Angelica calls to him from the couch.   
"Good morning," He crosses the room, careful not to step on any of the children, and joins her on the couch, squeezing in between her and Jonathan, a bright, curly-haired boy who seems to be watching a video of a kitten. "How are you?"  
"Fine. We're fine." She fiddles with the phone in her lap. "Tired."  
She doesn't say it explicitly, but Draco knows that 'Tired' means half the children were up all night from nightmares. No wonder they're so subdued today. And really, for the past few weeks. Draco’s been wondering if it's really as unethical as they say to slip them all some Dreamless Sleep every now and then.   
"I'm sorry," He pauses. "Have you eaten?"  
"Draco?" Pat calls, voice muffled in the bathroom. "Is Draco here?"  
"Yeah!" Angelica calls.  
The door opens and Pat steps out, her auburn hair clipped in a messy bun on her head. She looks exhausted, and Draco's gut twists with sympathy. "I'm so glad to see you. It's been a rough-" she yawns mid-sentence, "-night."  
"I heard. Have you eaten?"  
"No, haven't gotten a chance to cook yet."  
Rolling up his sleeves, Draco stands. "I can do it," he says.  
Pat looks so relieved she looks a bit faint. "Thank you so much. But before you do, can I talk to you for a second?"  
"Of course."  
They go into the bedroom that Pat shares with the baby and some of the younger children; miraculously, it's empty.  
"Draco I've been thinking..."  
He waits for her to continue.  
"I think I need to start looking for jobs. I know you don't want me to, but I can't just let you raise all the money yourself. We still need so much more, and with only one of us working, I just don't see how we can earn enough."  
He understands where she's coming from. It's only natural for her to feel panicked - in her point of view, they're rapidly squirreling away the money they acquired from the benefit concert to maintain this pitiful apartment and Draco's paycheck is the only source of income they have. They also have so-called 'subsidies' from the Muggle government to support their orphanage, but it's not enough. Not nearly enough.  
But she doesn't know that Draco is about to put on possibly the biggest Ministry of Magic charity event in recent history. She doesn't know that in a weeks time they'll be rolling in more money than they’ll know what to do with - courtesy of all the high society wizards and witches that used to fear the Malfoy name, but scorn now. She doesn't know that soon, she will be living in relative luxury. And that no one - certainly no blasted, cowardly 'neo-Death Eater,' will touch any of them ever again.  
"I know you're worried, but please, don't. This _is_ your job. Taking on another one will only tired you out more. It's too much for one person to handle."   
She considers his words, lips pursed. "I know. But the same could be said for you. Who's giving you a break? Who's telling you to stop putting so much on your plate?"  
He waves his hand. "I'm perfectly fine, I promise you. It's not like I'm doing any more than I usually do - taking care of the children, playing at the club..."

Sighing, she concedes. “I guess you’re right.”

He nods at the door leading to the sitting room, where the children are. “You’re too important to them. They wouldn’t want you to run yourself to the ground.”

“Thank you, Draco,” she grips his wrist, dangerously close to the Dark Mark, which all the Muggles think is just a cool, innocent tattoo, “You’re too kind to us. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

His fingers close around her hand. For years, he's fancied Pat as the younger sister he never had. "There is nothing to repay," he tells her softly.

Tears spring to her brown eyes and she quickly blinks them away. "Can I hug you?"

One thing about Muggles that Draco doesn't know if he'll ever get used to is how often they invade each other's personal space, but it's not to say he doesn't enjoy it. Oftentimes, he's just caught off guard by the simple intimacy of it. The comfort it brings him. "Yes."

Her arms wrap around him, not minding his boniness. He breathes in and smells coconut; after the orphanage burned down, Draco went out and replaced everyone's toiletries, taking care to pick out the specific brand of shampoo that he knew Pat liked. 

"Mm," she hums.

"Maybe you should take a nap."

"Yeah? Maybe. Was up all night."

He touches the small of her back tentatively. "Yes. I know. Why don't you rest while I make some breakfast?"

"M'kay." She lets go of him and flops onto her narrow bed. "Thank you."

Draco turns to leave.

"And Draco?"

He pauses. 

"Could you make pancakes?"

A laugh bubbles out of his chest. "Anything for you, Pat. I'll wake you up when they're ready."

She doesn't respond, already in the throes of sleep. He tries not to stare too enviously.

Dutifully, he enters the bare kitchen and begins pulling supplies. It's truly frightening how much food a house full of preteens can consume; Draco just went shopping earlier in the week but they're already running low on eggs and meat. He makes a mental note to visit the local farmer's market again soon.

Cooking has always been a meditative activity for him. It reminds him of Potions - what with all the ingredient preparing, measuring, stirring, and careful timing. Something about the precision of both arts is oddly calming for him. It grounds him in reality. 

Usually, he's fairly relaxed while cooking. But it seems that he should've stopped practicing earlier and slept more, because he continually finds himself either almost falling asleep waiting for the pancakes to cook. Or thinking about Harry. 

_I wonder what the git's doing now._ _Moping, still? Eating even more takeout?_ He shudders at the thought of going so long without homemade food. Didn't he have a house elf at some point? If Harry still does, then why isn't he being cared for? 

Draco flips the pancake.

_ This is ridiculous _ , he thinks.  _ It's none of my business anyways. _ Harry's lifestyle is his lifestyle and obviously he doesn't anyone to intrude on that, least of all Draco. Just because they...went on two dates doesn't mean much. It's not like they're boyfriends or something ridiculous like tha-

"Whatcha making?"

The yelp that escapes Draco's mouth is not at all dignified, but his heart is beating too fast to laugh. He turns his head. It's Rebecca, a soft-spoken girl with carefully braided hair.

"Sorry, you startled me," He resumes cooking. "They're pancakes."

"Oh! Thanks." She dashes out the kitchen to, Draco assumes, let her siblings know the breakfast menu. 

Draco sighs and leans against the counter as the pancake cooks. He’s probably going have to make upwards of thirty to make sure everyone gets enough. The beginnings of a headache surface at his temples. He really should’ve made some coffee before he left the house, even though it always had the side effect of giving him mild anxiety.

_ It’s fine,  _ he tells himself.  _ I’ll be fine. This is nothing compared to five years ago. Nothing compared to fifth year, even.  _ A tremor runs through his body, as it often does whenever he reflects back on his Hogwarts days. Rubbing his eyes with one hand, he plates the pancake with the other and begins to make the next one.

Forty-five minutes later, all the pancakes are piled high even when split between five plates. Dan comes in and helps him set up the small dining table that can’t even seat half the people in the orphanage, not including Pat or Draco - not that the kids particularly mind. They seem perfectly content dousing their pancakes in syrup while standing or even sitting on the floor. Gone are the days that they can all sit and eat at the massive dining table that Draco had built for them one summer - gone in the blaze.

But no matter. Draco will get it all back. 

After he rouses Pat, only the sounds of chewing can be heard throughout the apartment.

“This is  _ so  _ good Draco,” Pat moans between bites. The rest of the children nod their heads enthusiastically in agreement.

Draco has never had much faith in his cooking ability, having to pick it up suddenly after being released from Azkaban because neither he nor his mother had house elves to rely on anymore, but the children and Pat consistently devour his food like they’ve never eaten before. It does wonders for his ego.

“Thank you.” He tries to smile, but it comes out more like a grimace. The headache has hit him full-force, and he’s starting to think his legs might give out if he stops leaning against the kitchen counter.

Thank Merlin, no one notices, too busy stuffing their faces with pancakes and syrup and the last of the orange juice.

He checks the clock. He’d better start getting ready for work.

“Alright,” he pushes himself off the counter and somehow wills his body to stay upright. “I’ll be going now.”

“Where?” Angelica asks with her mouth full.

His lies come smoothly from practice. “I have lunch with a friend. And I need to run some errands. I’ll be back tomorrow, I expect.”

The children collectively groan. “Please, don’t leave,” Jonathan pouts. “I wanted to play a game with you.”

“And I wanted to show you a funny video!”

“Yeah! It’s hilarious, you  _ need  _ to see it.”

Angelica mumbles, “I was hoping you would check over my schoolwork…” The children have taken leave from school for the last few weeks due to their extenuating circumstances - and the administrators have been  _ quite  _ lenient in no way due to Draco’s persuasions - but it’s about time they go back soon. Draco and Pat are adamant that they receive a full education.

The pull to stay is strong, but Draco doesn’t have time to waste. He’s doing this for them. For the children. And for Pat.

“I would love to, but not today. I’m sorry. I promise I’ll be back tomorrow, however, so please wait for me.” He ruffles Dan’s black hair on his way out, rewrapping his scarf and adjusting his coat. “Goodbye. And I hope you have a good day.”

“Goodbye!” The children say in messy unison, waving.

It’s almost painful to close the door on them and walk out into the swirling snow. Draco clutches his coat closer and makes sure his scarf is covering his mouth before turning down the street and heading toward the Amber Tap.

Handel Street is a strange place: small stalls and local craftsmen by day, jazz enthusiasts and musicians by night. It’s precisely why Draco loves it.

There are fewer stalls step up during the winter, especially when it’s snowing, but the stall owners simply move their wares inside the unused clubs, with the club owners’ permission. The buildings that are usually dead and dark during the day glow from the inside like an oil lamp, and good smells waft out from the pastry stalls whenever the doors open and close. A few of their customers recognize Draco as he moves down the street, and approach him for autographs, hugs, words of wisdom, and the like.

As anyone who’s talked to him for more than two seconds could probably guess, Draco loves attention. Not the crude kind that the Wizarding World often inflicted upon him, but that from his fans. It’s flattering, but more than that, it’s inspiring. Sometimes, he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve so many people who respect him – Muggles most of all, if only they knew him as a school boy – but each fan interaction motivates him to at least try to become the man they think he is.

Muscle memory carries him to the front door of the Amber Tap, which is locked. He knocks and patiently waits.

Belle opens the door. She dresses down when the club isn’t running - sporting a green flannel and some loose trousers today. “Draco! You’re early. Come in. Sorry, Ava forgot to unlock the door for you again.”

He steps inside. “How are you? Has she gotten better?”

Ava’s been taking off from work for the last few days – “the flu,” Belle reckons.

“She’s not running a fever anymore, but I still made her stay in bed.” She smiles at Draco. “Wasn’t quite happy with me about that. She wanted to see you.”

“I think you made the right decision.” Draco tries not to look too relieved when he sits down at an empty table. “She should focus on resting up first.”

“That’s what I told her you’d say, too,” she chuckles. “She bet me that you wouldn’t.”

Draco manages a wry smile before getting back to business. He didn’t come here for lunch. He didn’t come here just to see Belle and Ava were alright and the Death Eaters hadn’t found the Amber Tap. He came here to work.

After the benefit concert, he’s begun picking up extra, daytime shifts at the club. Cleanup crew, set up, bar restocking, simple, menial tasks like that. Belle only let him do it on the condition that he would go home and sleep straight after each night’s set and rest until he had to come in again the next day.

She doesn’t know that he’s still visiting the kids, still planning another benefit concert. And Pat doesn’t know that he’s working overtime at the club.

If Draco’s careful, he can raise enough money to buy a new orphanage and surprise both parties. Just imagining the look on their faces gives him a surge of fresh energy.

But most of it hinges on the success of the Ministry concert. If truly no one shows up to watch a former Death Eater and the disgraced Malfoy heir bang on some keys, then Draco’s not sure what he’ll do. Take on a second job, perhaps. Sell his body, like he’s always joked to Pansy he would.

“So what do you need me to do today?”

Belle thinks. “Do you mind just tidying up the place? The bar, the tables, and backstage? I reckon that’ll keep you busy. The concert got a little…wild last night, if you happened to see.”

He did. There was some drunken toast at the central table that had ended in the toaster tripping onto the table, dragging off the tablecloth as he slid onto the floor, and sending everyone’s drinks and belongings tumbling. Draco would’ve laughed if he didn’t quickly realize that he would be the one tasked with that table’s cleanup.

“Alright, I’ll get started on  _ that  _ table, I suppose.” And so he does.

 

When Draco stumbles back into his apartment, more than twelve hours later, an owl is waiting, perched on his cluttered kitchen table. It’s a particularly regal Eagle owl that cocks its head at him when he enters, almost judging him for coming back so late.

It’s from his mother.

Her letter reads, in her dignified, sloping cursive.

_ Dearest Draco, _

_ I am writing to ask after you, as I have not heard from you in several weeks. I hope you are well and can send back a response as soon as possible, so as to allay my worries. _

_ How did the Christmas concert go? I am sure you played splendidly. Do bid Ms. Belle and Ms. Ava a greeting on my behalf. _

_ Additionally, how are the children? And Ms. Pat? I am happy to accept them in my home for dinner anytime, just let me know their availability. And please let Ms. Pat know that I am happy to look after any of them if she ever needs help. _

_ That is all I have to say for now. Please stay warm, Draco. I am doing well, but I hope to see you again soon. _

_ Yours, _

_ N.M. _

“ _ Accio quill _ .” A quill zooms from his bedroom to his hand. “ _ Accio parchment,”  _ a piece of parchment does the same. He hopes his response doesn’t show how heavy his eyelids are, how light his head feels.

_ Mother, _

_ Apologies, for not reaching out to you sooner. We’ve had a sudden influx of business at the AT in the past few weeks, so I have been busy. I promise you that I am well. Please do not worry. _

_ The Christmas concert went very well.  _ It feels like it happened a lifetime ago. Before the burning of the orphanage. Before the benefit concert. When his life knew at least some semblance of peace.  _ And I will let them know. _

_ The children and Pat are fine, the same as always.  _ His mother hasn’t read a single Wizarding newspaper since the War. He has no reason to believe that she would start now. There is no way she would know what happened.  _ Angelica is maturing much too fast. I’m sure they would love to have dinner with you, but probably not in the near future; the children are very busy with their coursework these days. _

His quill pauses. His next words are on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill onto the page; the arson, his benefit concert, how he’s working day and night and not getting any sleep and how when he does get a chance he lies awake instead, fretting that he’s actually a failure and a fraud and that he’ll never be anything more than a Death Eater. Than a kid who made a horrible mistake. Tossing and turning, cursing himself for feeling this way when he deserves it - deserves every extra shift, every sleepless night, every taunt and jeer and leery set of eyes because he’s ruined so many lives, even unwittingly. Or unwillingly.

But there is no point in worrying her needlessly. Soon, he will fix everything, and then he will tell her the truth like it’s some funny, inconsequential anecdote. He can handle it on his own.

His hand resumes writing.

_ Thank you for the letter, Mother. I am pleased to hear that you are well. I will visit soon. _

_ Love, _

_ Your Son _

_ D.M. _

 

Then, he promptly rolls up the parchment, attaches it to the owl's leg - Princess, he thinks she's called - and she swoops out of his open window without hesitation.

His flat is sometimes too big for him.

Tonight is one of those times.

His eyes droop; he really should sleep, but missing even one day of practice could damage the overall quality of his playing, which he can't have. There's too much riding on the concert for him to let his guard down now. Rest can come afterwards, when the dust settles and he's back to his normal routine.

Shrugging off his coat and laying it on the back of his couch, he crosses the small sitting room to his keyboard. It's electronic, not acoustic like the one they'll have for him at the Ministry - not an ideal place to practice, but with the upright gone, he's had to resort to drastic measures.

_ It's fine. _ His fingers run several quick scales to warm up, but even after he's finished they still feel stiff, tired, and unresponsive.  _ It'll all be okay. _

The next morning, his alarm clock rings from his bedroom, waking him up. He opens his eyes blearily.  _ Shit _ . It seems from the awkward way he's slumped on the floor with his face slightly smushed into the carpet that he fell asleep sometime last night without realizing it.

Even after sleeping, he only has enough energy to roll his body over so he's staring at his ceiling. His drab, drab ceiling with a slightly worrying stain discoloring half of it.

Slowly, he feels his stomach begin to tighten again. He shouldn't have slept. He should've practiced. He's wasted too much time.

"Useless," he croaks out at himself. "Bloody useless."

How can he hope to charm the Wizarding World into donating to a former Death Eater if he hasn't gotten a damn thing to offer them? Draco's beginning to think that the concert was a mistake; he was riding high on his success at the Amber Tap - some anonymous donor had contributed nearly five thousand pounds - and he foolishly thought that he had the ability to put on an even bigger concert.

And not to mention his program. The planning committee was extremely excited about his pieces, especially after he explained that there were magical components involved, but this would be the first time displaying the product of years and years of careful research and practice to such a large Wizarding audience. 

They might not like it, might think that he's amateurish or that his work is inconsequential. Worst case, they think that his magic is part of some kind of nefarious plot to take down the Ministry and he gets thrown back into Azkaban.

Harry wouldn't be there to vouch for him this time; after all that Draco said? In his current state?

_ Merlin. _ If he goes back to Azkaban they'll put him with his father again and-

Draco has to forcibly stop his train of thought with a deep breath in and out, lest he trigger a panic attack. If he wants to function for the rest of the day, he mustn't think about Azkaban or his father.

So he sits up, takes a Headache Potion, and makes himself some scrambled eggs - which he nearly burns - before dashing out of his flat to visit the children, repeating his day from yesterday.

Day by day, the concert draws nearer and Draco finds himself focusing less and less well. He burns the children's breakfast to crisp several times. One night during a regular club performance, he trips backstage during intermission and knocks himself out for several minutes. He is only barely able to convince Belle that he's fine, that he doesn't need to go to a Muggle hospital, and that yes, he can keep playing. And as for his practice time at home, he continually finds himself spending more and more time just staring blankly at the score, trying not to fall asleep. At one point during a particularly grueling practice session, he blacks out for a few seconds while playing through a slow part in the piece.

He's falling apart at the seams, and he knows it, but after a few days of this, he falls into a good rhythm with it. His exhaustion begins to feel like proof that he's working hard. Besides, he caused this. If it weren't for him, the orphans would still have a home, wouldn't have come so close to danger. He deserves all the pain he feels while trying to put things right. He must atone, the same way he atoned for the War by rotting in Azkaban.  

He doesn't think about Harry very much during this time; he is simply too busy for it. The git is probably wasting away, moping around his ancestral home, and avoiding everyone, including Draco.

_ Fine _ , he thinks while loading the table cloths into the laundry in the back of the Amber Tap,  _ if he doesn't want to have social interactions, then so be it _ . Draco can worry about him later. He has a job to do - several, in fact.

He starts the machine and watches as the swathes of white cloth begin turning and tumbling inside, his stomach twisting as if mimicking it.


	15. Chapter 15

On the morning of the concert, Draco wakes up, sprints to his bathroom, and throws up in the toilet. 

After flushing, he washes his face in the sink and regards himself in the mirror. His eyes are sunken into his face, making him look like his father post-Kiss, his face gaunt, paler than usual, and his lips cracked and dry. He doesn't even want to look at, much less touch his hair; he's forgotten to take a shower for the past several days, relying on Glamour to make him look better to the Muggles around him.

When he touches his fingers to his face, his hands are shaking and desperately cold. He sometimes gets like this the day of an important concert, but the last time it was this bad was before his first few concerts at the Amber Tap.

The trick is to not think about his impending concert too much, but it's easier said than done. As he's pouring cereal into one of his last remaining clean bowls, he's fretting about the catering for the event - will the food be up to their standards? Will it come in on time? As he's using his wand to smooth out the wrinkles on his dress shirt, he's chewing his lip thinking about having to get up in front of all the families who were on the right side of the War - the ones who’d lobbied for his father to be Kissed and for the Malfoy fortune to be taken away from his mother - and make a speech pleading for them to donate to Muggle War orphans. As he's getting some last minute practicing in despite his stiff fingers, his heart flutters dangerously at the thought of possible failure. Of one wrong note, chord. Of forgetting the pieces altogether. Of his magic going wrong. 

Repeatedly, he oscillates back and forth between two main thoughts:  _ I can do this, I have prepared more than enough and I am a talented enough player to be able to recover from any mistakes I make _ and  _ Merlin's bloody balls, I'm going to be sick. _

He wonders if the children have eaten yet, if the club will run alright without him; he's already called both Pat and Belle, telling them he's sick and is at home resting. At least the first half of that is true.

The concert isn't for another few hours, but he must arrive at the venue early to make sure all the decorations are set up properly and to try the piano. So he dresses in his best Muggle formal wear, not caring if the Ministry people will ridicule him for it, and apparates over.

The event is being held in one of the Ministry's off-site buildings, usually only used for sponsored conventions like the Magical Creature Enthusiasts Convention or other large events like the Ten Year Second Wizarding War Memorial and Dedication. Draco is simultaneously flattered and intimidated that the planning committee offered this location to him; none of its previous events were led by a disgraced, former Death Eater, after all. 

On the outside, the building is a small, seemingly abandoned Muggle warehouse in the heart of London, but it's all a magical facade, of course. The inside is spacious: arched ceilings with dozens of intricate chandeliers, a glossy wooden floor, and practically floor-length windows.

Draco is pleased to note that his proposed decor hit the mark perfectly; dozens of circular tables paired with sleek black chairs with a white cushion back, enchanted, silver-rimmed plates of food and glasses of water that never run out, a slightly elevated stage on the far wall with a beautiful concert grand piano - spanning eight feet - perched on top, and light, peach-tinged curtains framing each floor-length window that are spelled to billow slightly, scattered light and casting the entire hall in a shimmery glow.

Surely not even the most highbrow wizard or witch could find fault in his decorations; he's gone to enough parties with his Mother and Father in his youth to know exactly what the top of Wizarding society finds tasteful. And this is exactly it.

He tries a grape from a platter on the table nearest to him, and it pops with a burst of sweetness in his mouth.

"Draco! Good afternoon!" Draco turns and spots Darcy jogging toward him, waving cheerily.

"Good afternoon, Darcy. This looks amazing already."

She smiles. "I completely agree. Your ideas were spectacular. Have you ever considering going into interior design? The market for it in the Wizarding world is quite hot nowadays."

Coming from anyone else, Draco would think her words would be sarcastic, or at least a little condescending, but he can't bear to doubt such a genuine smile.

"No, actually, but thank you for the compliment. I find that I am quite content creating music."

"Of course, of course. And I am sure that you are very talented in that field, as well. I look forward to hearing you play."

“Thank you.”

“How are you feeling?”

A lie is in order. “Fine. Is there anything else to be done?”

She shakes her head, her long black hair swinging, “I don’t think so. The food is on its way and our staff is on standby.”

“Fantastic. Do you mind if I practice for a bit, then?” He needs to try the piano - it’s imperative that he gets a feel for it in order to play to the best of his ability - but he also just wants to sit down. The balls of his feet have practically been rubbed raw with all the work he’s done at the club the past few weeks, and his stiff dress shoes aren’t helping.

“Of course not, it’s all yours.” 

“Many thanks, Darcy.”

“It’s no problem at all. I’ll be in the staff room if you need me,” she says, point past the pillars in the corner at the door that’s slightly ajar.

“Got it.”

Draco turns his attention to the piano as Darcy makes her exit. Soon, he’s the only one left in the hall.

He runs a finger along the top of the piano and admires how its sleek black coat catches the light and reflects it back softly, more muted. With one fluid, practiced motion, he lifts the cover and props it up so that the piano is open. Its insides are all copper shine, strings strung tight. He pushes a key down and watches the hammer go up and strike the corresponding key. 

It’s a beautiful, quality piano. Draco wants it for himself - what is the Ministry going to do with a concert grand, anyways? Keep in the lobby as a pretty little souvenir after the concert is over like some Muggles do? 

He takes a seat and runs a scale, the notes projecting smoothly into the hall.  _ What a waste. But it’s not like I can fit this anywhere in the flat.  _ And not to mention the complaints he’ll get from his neighbors - occasional sex heard through the walls is fairly expected, but jazz piano day in and out would be a little too much for any normal person to handle.

No matter. It simply means that he should enjoy his time playing it while it lasts.

He practices for the next hour or so, running scales, running his pieces from memory, and practicing his magic. He only does the latter once or twice, and only for a few minutes at a time. Intertwining his magic with the music takes a lot of concentration and magical power, and he wouldn't want to use either of them up before the actual concert.

Though his insides are turning and turning and turning and his fingers won't stop shaking, he still plays the same he always does. Draco hopes he can maintain this level of controlled anxiety for the duration of the event.

Fifteen minutes before the doors are due to open, Darcy comes back out of the staff room.

"We're letting the guests in soon," she tells him, eyeing him up and down. "Do you need something to drink? You look a bit pale."

Draco's throat works as he swallows. "Tea, please." Anything colder would freeze the joints and muscles in his fingers entirely, rendering them unable to fly up and down the piano.

"Right away. Would you like to wait in the staff room? I was thinking I could introduce you first before you come out." 

"Sure."

They walk to the staff room together, and if Darcy notices Draco's legs trembling under him like those of a newborn foal, she politely doesn't say anything.

The staff room is a little cramped in comparison to the grandiose design of the rest of the building; it consists of a few wooden chairs placed around a table in the center, and half of a kitchen lining the walls. There's no one else around. 

Darcy walks to the kettle on the counter and begins making him tea. "I heard some of your playing through the walls - you're really good," she tells him conversationally. "I never thought I would like Muggle music."

Draco sits at the table and clutches the edge of the chair just to make sure it's real. "I'm glad I have introduced you to something you like."

"How long have you been playing?"

Answer ready on his tongue, "Since childhood, technically, but professionally for five years."

"Wow. You must practice a lot now."

Draco's head spins at the thought of the hours upon hours he's spent slouched over his keyboard, the upright in the orphanage. "Yes, I practice several hours a day."

Her eyes are wide. "Hours? I would never have the patience."

He smiles wryly. "The years have made me patient enough."

They lapse into silence as the water boils. When it does, she pours it into a white mug she finds in a cupboard and places a Muggle teabag into it. Small conveniences like teabags have picked up in popularity in the Wizarding world recently, and Draco is privately thankful for it. Sometimes-no- _ oftentimes, _ the old-fashioned ways of wizards and witches can be...constricting.

"Here you are. I hope you don't mind black tea - it's all we have left right now," she summons a pitcher and a small container with white cubes inside. "And here's some milk and sugar."

Draco takes all that she offers him, breathing in the steam rising from the mug gratefully. "Thank you."

"You know," she says suddenly. "You're not how I thought you'd be. Or - you're not how everyone told me you'd be."

Not pausing, not even flinching at her words, Draco continues to add milk and sugar until it's how he likes it. "What did they say?"

"They warned me you'd be a prick. Arrogant. Maybe even violent." Darcy winces at her own words. "Sorry. I know it's not true now."

He does speak, just stares at the grain of the table.

"They also didn't warn me that you'd...clean up so well."

When Draco looks up, she's blushing. "Thank you," he begins cautiously, not wanting to hurt her. "But I'm gay, I'm afraid."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry if I led you on."

"No, no," she's obviously flustered, cheeks ruddy. "I'm sorry for assuming. And I'm sorry if I made you feel...uncomfortable."

"It's not a problem." He takes a small sip out of his mug and tries not to outwardly flinch when it burns his tongue. "You are a very beautiful woman. I am sure you will find someone."

Even her ears are red now, but she still tries to laugh off her embarrassment. "Thank you, I appreciate it."

He blows on his tea and she fidgets. Outside, the sound of chatter and footsteps begins to echo around the hall. "Oh! They've opened the doors. Please excuse me, I have to make sure everyone finds their seat." With that, she ducks out of the room.

He wasn't lying; Darcy Brown is a very attractive woman, objectively. If he were ten years younger, still in the iron grip of his father's expectations, perhaps he would've consented to a relationship with her. Maybe a marriage too, and she could bear him the heir that's crucial to retaining the Malfoy line. 

But his father is gone, for all intents and purposes, and his mother is happy as long as he is happy. And they both know that a female companion would never make Draco happy - not fully, anyways.

Memories of his time with Harry while teaching at Hogwarts rise to the forefront of his mind, unbidden: their quiet nights in just grading papers, the time they went ice skating, the snowball fight they had with the students. 

It's ridiculous, really, how quickly Draco has grown fond of Harry, grown used to his warm presence. He doesn't even know if Harry feels the same. Maybe he did once, but after the argument they had a few days ago? Draco wouldn't blame him if he never wanted to speak to him again, preferring to go back to his simple life without a former Death Eater tainting it.

He takes a long sip of the now-cooler mug of tea, and revels in the way he feels it slide down his chest and pool in his stomach, a small fire inside of him. His fingers tingle in response to becoming so warm in such a short amount of time. 

The level of noise from outside swells. Draco can't pick out individual voices, but he is positively sure that milling around in the hall right now are dozens of people who haven't seen him, haven't thought of him in years. He wills himself not to gag.  
He takes a few deep breaths, downs the rest of his tea, and presses his ear to the door. Still, he hears nothing distinct, but it seems that there are a considerable amount of people already inside. The prospect of so many people donating and possibly hitting his goal in one night should give him joy, but instead leaves him feeling cold with dread, despite the warm tea now sitting in his stomach.  
Unable to contain his anxiety any longer, he cracks the door open a sliver.  
Yes, he was correct. Even from his small angle of view, he can spot dozens of wizards and witches dressed in extravagant, flowing robes walking around, chatting, drinking. Some have already taken their seats.  
He closes the door immediately.  
Focus. He must focus. Peoplewatching will only distract him from his real mission.  
Who cares if he's pretty sure he saw Justin Finch-Fletchley, the Muggleborn that Draco had picked on so viciously during school, talking to a witch with his arm around Hannah Abbott’s waist? Who cares if the Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, was asking one of the waitstaff for a flute of champagne? Who cares if Draco managed to catch several flashes of familiar red hair popping in and out among the crowd?  
He rubs each of his bony knuckles, trying to breathe and calm his heartbeat.   
To distract himself, he peels himself off the door and walks to the wall farthest from it, the sounds of the crowd fading slightly. He studies the eggshell paint covering the wall. He traces the small imperfections in it - the bumps and ridges.   
After a few minutes of this, his mind going through the program piece by piece, double and triple checking that he knows the notes and knows when to weave his magic, he hears Darcy's voice loud and clear - she's cast a _Sonorus_.  
"Please, if you can, make your way to your seats. There are name cards at each place. We will begin dinner and the program soon.  
It's almost time. Draco smooths down the front of his shirt and takes a seat, drumming his fingers on the table.  
A few minutes pass and the general noise seems to move away from the staff room.  
"Good evening everyone, and welcome to the first Ministry-sponsored Fundraising Jazz Concert!"  
Applause. Loud applause.  
"The cause tonight is raising money to build a new orphanage for the Muggle war orphans targeted in the cruel neo-Death Eater attack several weeks ago. Please, feel free to donate at any time during or after the concert - I will be processing them in the lobby where you entered from."  
She pauses. "I hope all of you have received the program. Tonight we are very lucky to have Draco Malfoy, renowned jazz pianist, play for us. He has honed his craft for the last several years, regularly performs at a Muggle jazz club, the Amber Tap, and volunteers at the orphanage that was attacked - Harmony. Please, join me in giving him a warm welcome."  
Draco rises and exits the room amid polite applause. He does not look directly at the audience, but subconsciously notes that all the tables are full.   
When he climbs onto the stage, Darcy exits, patting him gently on the back.  
" _Sonorous_ ," he whispers, fingering his wand in his pocket.  
"Thank you, Darcy, for such a generous introduction." His voice sounds thin, weaker than usual as it emanates out into the hall. Making eye contact with anyone is too much, so he fixates on the far wall. 

"I'd also like to thank every one of you, for coming here tonight. The Harmony Orphanage is filled with great kids, being raised by a fantastic caretaker. The attack on them was a truly heinous act, one that no one, and certainly not them, deserves."

A table filled mostly by redheads draws his eye. It's the Weasleys, of course; Molly, Arthur, Percy, Audrey, Ron, and Hermione. From what Draco can tell, they are listening to him intently.

He tries not to feel too disappointed at seeing that Harry isn't with them. 

"Tonight, I ask nothing but for you to relax, enjoy the music, and consider donating so the children can have a home again. Thank you." He tilts his head in a slight bow and applause erupts again. 

The crowd isn't impressed yet, he can tell after nights and nights of standing ovations at the Amber Tap, but he still have plenty of opportunities to convince him that his cause is worth fighting for.

Fear threatens to seize him again - fear that everyone only came to ridicule him, to treat him like some endangered animal in a Muggle zoo. Fear that he isn't talented enough, hasn’t worked hard enough, hasn't atoned enough to deserve success. 

But he refuses to feel afraid. He refuses to even think. His body moves the same way it has countless times; sits on the bench, flexes his wrists, and placing his hands in his lap.

It seems as if the entire hall is holding its breath.

He picks his hands up, and begins to play.

 

The first time Draco played for his mother after leaving Azkaban, she cried. And it wasn't the pretty, Pureblood cry either - it was full on sobbing, snot and tears running down her face and wetting the front of her dress. He'd only ever seen her cry like that one other time - when he took the Mark.

"Draco," she wailed, cupping his face. "My son. My son."

He couldn't do anything except hold her, the pair sinking to the floor until they were just kneeling in front of the orphanage's upright. The children and Pat watching at a distance.

"I am so proud of you." She whispered fervently into his ear, her breath hot.

After that day, he regained the ability to cast a Patronus. It was a spider, the same as his mother's.

 

Right now, playing a concert grand in front of dozens of witches and wizards who suffered at the hands of his family, who passed judgement on him and his father after the war, feels like that day.

Intermission arrives before he realizes it; it's difficult to judge the passage of time while he's playing and weaving magic, he's found. 

The crowd stretches their legs, finishes the last of their suppers, and walks to the lobby to either donate or leave - Draco can't tell. A member of the waitstaff offers him a cup of warm tea and a handkerchief, both of which he accepts gratefully. 

As soon as he steps off the stage, wiping at his brow, he's mobbed.

"That was incredible, Draco, really."

"Excellent performance so far!"

"Arthur's gone to donate, Bill and Charlie and Ginny are really sorry they couldn't make it."

Draco blinks once, twice, then croaks, "Th-thank you for coming."

Molly lays a hand on his arm. "Of course. Why didn't you tell us you were putting this on?"

"Yeah, we only knew because half of us work in the Ministry," Ron adds, grinning. “We thought that maybe you wouldn’t want us here.”

“I-I apologize. I suppose I didn’t want to trouble you all.” He did consider personally inviting the Weasley’s, since so many of them expressed interest earlier, but he thought better of it because he figured that without Harry there, they wouldn’t bother coming.

“Trouble? It’s no trouble at all,” Molly says.

“I’ve been looking forward to hearing you,” Percy pipes up. “And I must say, you have shattered my expectations.”

“Have you been seeing the look on everyone’s faces?” Ron snickers. “I swear Robards was going to burst a blood vessel.”

“Your playing really was very good.” Hermione tells him. “Your magic was even more potent than the last time I heard you. Your improvement is really impressive.”

Draco flushes a little bit at the compliment - coming from Hermione, he knows it was one of the highest order. “Thank you. It’s not quite at the level I’d like it to be, but it’ll do.”

She smiles. They chat for a little bit more and then the intermission is over, as per Darcy’s announcement echoing from the lobby.

“Talk to you later, Draco.” The Weasley clan tells him, heading back to their seats along with the rest of the crowd. 

He downs as much tea as he can, wipes off the remaining sweat on his forehead and on the nape of his neck, and stands ready to climb the stage again. Darcy half-jogs up to him and whispers, “Ready?”

“Yes.”

She announces him again, and he steps back into the magically generated spotlight. 

 

This time, he’s slightly more relaxed as he plays, and consequently is able to pay more attention to his surroundings.

The crowd seems...receptive. Surprisingly so. With every magically-loaded note he plays, he feels them resonating with it, generating a low thrum that sits low in his heart.

He doesn’t imbue all of his music in magic - no, that would be entirely too taxing. Instead, he plans his bouts of magic well, timing them so they have the maximum effect. 

He’s not casting a specific spell, but rather using the music and the piano as a conduit for his magic. There’s no proper way to describe it, but he fancies a visualization of the process to be like this: each note is a sound wave in the air, and his ability as a wizard is to alter that wave so that it’s the same note, but with more magical energy. He’s not charming the crowd per say, but just accessing part of their subconscious, encouraging them to feel certain emotions at certain times. It’s not nearly as intrusive as it seems.

It’s strange to resonate with such a large crowd of wizards and witches - he’s played so much just for himself, for his mother, and for Muggles that he only has a theoretical idea of what he, as the performer, should feel during a successful concert. At peace. Warm. Fulfilled. 

He never thought there would come a day he could experience it for himself. 

As night begins, the hall darkens and the hundreds of enchanted candles decorating the chandeliers flicker on. Most everyone has stopped eating - the sounds of cutlery on plates have ceased - and the hall is silent save for Draco. 

He plays on and on. His playing isn’t flawless, and it never is for even the best musicians, but it’s good. Jazz pieces composed by Muggles and Wizards flow from him and ring out into the hall. His magical core practically vibrates inside of him. 

Suddenly, he’s done - the last trill executed with utmost perfection.

He’s standing. Bowing.

Others are standing too; the entire hall rises to their feet, clapping for a Death Eater. 

Several whistles pierce the air, and a bouquet of conjured daffodils is levitated right into his trembling arms. The Weasleys grin and clap the loudest for him. 

Everything comes into focus when he steps off the stage:

Former classmates, the members of Wizangamont who sentenced him to Azkaban, reporters from the  _ Prophet,  _ the Minister and his trademark, warm smile, Darcy, the Weasleys - all crowd around him, clamoring for his attention. Shouting his name. Touching him, pulling him this way and that. It seems that he doesn’t have enough mouths, doesn’t have enough bodies to talk to them all.

“Mr. Malfoy, is this what you’ve been doing since Azkaban?” The reporter yells.

“Good job,” Darcy tells him, squeezing his arm before disappearing into the crowd.

Finch-Fletchley and Abbott approach him. Their eyes are wary, but their smiles seem warm enough. “Nicely done, Malfoy. That was great, really.”

Kingsley Shacklebolt himself approaches him with a scowling man in scarlet robes at his side. “Congratulations, Malfoy, I believe tonight turned out to be a success.”

“I agree,” Draco responds, breathless all of a sudden. “Thank you for the opportunity, Minister.”

His smile grows wider. “I should be the one thanking  _ you.  _ You’re the one who proposed the idea.”

To say that showing up at the Minister of Magic’s office practically demanding that the Ministry sponsor a fundraising concert after years of inactivity in the Wizarding World was nerve-wracking is a massive understatement. Draco wasn’t sure if he was displaying more reckless Gryffindor bravery or calculated Slytherin cunning in that moment. He’s not even sure if he gives a damn anymore.

Before he can respond to Shacklebolt, he’s wrapped in several freckled arms.

“You did  _ so well! _ ” Molly cries. It seems that she’s been crying, though for what reason Draco doesn’t know.

“Congratulations mate,” Ron says right in his ear.

_ Mate. _

What would schoolboy-Draco say to him now if he saw him like this: reputation tarnished, creating music for a living, and nearly crying over Ronald Weasley calling him ‘mate’?

For the rest of the evening, until night has settled comfortably and the charms on the curtains have all but worn out, Draco shakes more hands than he can count, says the words ‘thank you’ more times than he has before in his life, and feels like his heart will stop beating altogether from a combination of adrenaline leaving his body and utter exhaustion. It’s madness. Complete and utter madness. If it weren’t for the persistent ache in his lower back, he would’ve thought it was all a dream. Or a nightmare. 

Hermione and Ron are one of the last of the guests to leave, the reason for their decision quickly becomes apparent.

“I wish Harry had come...I know you tried to talk to him.” Hermione says.

“I did. It…” He grimaces. “...did not go well. I may have insulted him at the end of it.”

The pair can’t help laughing slightly at that.

“I understand.” Hermione’s eyes are intensely sympathetic - so much so that Draco itches to look away. “He can be a right git during times like these.”

“You said it, not me,” Draco jokes.

No one has the strength to laugh this time.

“Have you heard from him at all since then?”

“No.”

The couple share a look. 

“What’s happened?” Draco asks, an ever-familiar panic rising. If something happened to Harry because of him he’d-

“Nothing, nothing,” Ron says quickly. “We just haven’t heard from in a bit, either. We were wondering if he was owling you.”

“He hasn’t. I thought he was in contact with  _ you. _ ”

Draco bites his lip. Maybe he should have been reaching out. Maybe he should have pushed Harry to come a little bit more.

Hermione lets out a heavy sigh and places a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “It’s okay, we’ll keep trying. Just...let us know if he owls you, alright?”

He nods. “Of course.”

“Goodnight, Draco” Hermione says.

“See you later,” Ron says.

“Goodnight.”

The pair turn and make their way across the hall toward the lobby, Hermione’s heels clacking on the wooden floor.

Draco is alone again.

“Draco.” Darcy calls to him as she walks in from the lobby, passing the Granger-Weasleys. 

No, he is not. Not yet.

“Yes?”

Merlin, he’s tired. Just the thought of sinking into his sheets and never rising again almost has him falling to his knees.

“You won’t believe it.” She’s breathless, cheeks red and eyes wide.

“Believe what?”

“The donations. I’ve counted them, and we’ve raised over ten  _ thousand _ galleons.”

“T-ten thousand…?”

“Yes!” She enthuses. “You did this, Draco. Congratulations!”

He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“I’m not sure how much Muggle money that converts to, but surely that alone is enough to buy a house? Draco? Dra-”

It all goes to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! And remember to sleep and eat properly even (especially) when you're stressed!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, folks - the climax of this fic :)
> 
> NOTE: Please mind the suicide attempt mention content warning in this chapter in particular. As it was previously, the mention in question will be clearly partitioned off, and not reading it will not significantly impact your experience.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy!

"Finally."

"Thank Merlin."

"Quick, get him some water."

Draco's eyes fly open. He's suddenly in the staff room again, surrounded by people. Members of the planning committee who so graciously set up the venue for him.

"Draco? Can you hear me?" Darcy asks.

He shifts. It seems they transfigured something into a cushion for him to lay on.

"Yes." His voice cracks. "Did I faint?"

She nods grimly, and passes him a cup of water. Slowly, he sits up with her help and begins drinking. 

"Are you feeling alright? Should I call a Healer?"

"N-no. I'm fine, I promise. Just need to go home."

"Yes, of course. Are you alright to apparate on your own?"

The other wizards and witches watch him with concern evident on their faces. 

"Yes, I'll be fine. It's not a far jump."

Though his joints protest, he manages to stand up on his own and places the half-empty cup of water on the table. "I should get going. I'm sorry to have worried you all."

They all shake their hands, muttering that "it's not a problem." 

"Thank you for all that you've done tonight."

Darcy smiles. "It was all you, Draco. And the donations have been transferred to your account."

Starting, Draco remembers just how much they made in one night. "Thank you," he tells her calmly, but inside his heart is racing.

He exits the building after a few more "Goodbyes" and apparates back home in one piece.

_ Ten thousand galleons.  _ He steps out of his stuffy shirt and trousers until he's naked save for his boxers.  _ Ten thousand galleons _ . He flops onto his bed and is asleep almost immediately, not caring what time it is, not caring what time he wakes up. Ten thousand galleons.

He's done it.

 

All in all, Draco manages to raise over 55,000 Muggle pounds from the Amber Tap concert and the Ministry concert combined. It's not enough to buy a full house in the middle of London, where the orphanage was located initially, but it's enough to buy one on the outskirts of London, near the countryside. It's not a bad change, Draco thinks. This way, the children will be closer to his mother, to their schools, and farther from the sometimes dangerous hubbub of a populated city. He thinks a quieter upbringing will do the children some good, especially considering all that they've been through.

He spends the next several days alternating between sleeping twelve to thirteen to fourteen hours straight to meeting with Muggle real estate agents to find the perfect fit. He tells Pat, the children, Belle, and Ava that he's still sick - nothing serious - and doesn't want to pass it onto them. It's the perfect excuse; he gets time to rest, look for houses, and formulate a plausible explanation for his sudden and massive windfall.

Sleep, as it turns out, does wonders for his body. His skin flushes with renewed color, the bags under his eyes soften, and he can actually go about his day without feeling as if he is going to collapse on the street at any moment. 

During this time, he takes a break from practicing, so as to avoid burnout. He still has a job as a musician, so he must preserve his sanity lest he can't bear to work anymore. But he still researches in his free time; he doesn’t know why he does it, knowing that the only way for his work to be accepted by Wizarding society is if he submits it anonymously. It’s the personal satisfaction of learning, he supposes, that drives him to keep writing in his research notebook. 

His mother sends him another letter a few days into his new routine, asking after him again as well as updating him on a recent road trip she took herself on. The fact that Narcissa Malfoy, the woman who once was afraid of the telly, has her license and her own little car now still jars Draco. And as it turns out, she's awfully fond of traveling by car, and often drives herself to various places all over the British mainland - just exploring. 

Again, he struggles over whether or not to tell her about the recent events in his life. She doesn't even know that he's been in contact with Harry, let alone that he's slowly falling in love with the Weasley family or that he’s raised over ten thousand galleons from the Wizarding world to buy the children a new home.

_ Soon _ , he promises himself.  _ I will tell her soon _ . It's not the right time quite yet - he still has the house to buy, after all.

He doesn't expect to be shopping around for much longer; his specifications have been fairly broad - it has to be large enough to fit at least a kitchen, two bathrooms, three bedrooms, and a playroom. In fact, he's already found a few that seem like a good fit. He already can't wait until the children and Pat move in.

On the fourth day of house-hunting, he receives an owl not from his mother, but from Hermione.

 

_ Draco, _

 

_ I'm terribly sorry to be bothering you, but Ron and I are desperate. As you know, we have been trying to get in contact with Harry for a while. We've asked all his contacts if they've heard from him and they haven't. He's warded the Floo so we can't get in and all of our owls are coming back without reaching him. We're very worried, as you can imagine, and we were wondering if you would be willing to go to his door and ask to see him - since he let you in last time. Please. You're our only hope. We just want to make sure he's alright. _

 

_ Yours, _

_ Hermione Granger-Weasley _

 

His grip on the letter tightens as his blood runs cold. He hasn't even spared Harry so much as a thought in the last few days both because he's been so busy and because he just assumed that he'd recovered from his low spirits by now, but apparently he hasn't. At all.

The Muggle real-estate agent walks back into the empty sitting room of the house, where Draco is, and opens his mouth to comment on the owl perched on the windowsill, but Draco  _ Obliviate _ s him before he can speak a single word. The man slumps onto the floor, unharmed.

Draco wastes no time in taking out a Muggle pen that he always keeps in his pocket during emergencies like these - they're a true technological wonder, but that's for another time - and scrawls his reply on the back of the letter.

 

_ Hermione, _

 

_ Of course. It is no trouble at all. I will head over and try to see him immediately, and I will update you either by owl or Patronus.  _

 

_ D.M. _

 

The tawny owl snatches the crumpled piece of parchment out of his hands and swoops out immediately, keen to get his reply back to Hermione and Ron as soon as possible, so as to allay their fears somewhat.

After rousing the agent, telling him that he collapsed without warning and insisting that they reschedule the tour so the poor man can rest, Draco apparates to Grimmauld Place.

The outside hasn’t changed, at least; still grim and gothic as always. The neighborhood children aren’t out to play today, probably preferring to stay inside during such a unforgivingly cold day such as this one. 

Draco knocks on the door as loudly as his knuckles can allow.

Time ticks by to the beat of Draco’s tapping foot. He fiddles with his scarf and brushes back loose strands of his hair.

There is no sign of movement from inside the house - as far as Draco can tell, anyways. Fear rises in him. He knows it’s utterly ridiculous to think a bunch of layabouts with nothing to do other than to preach blood and racial purity would be able to capture or kill the Boy Who Lived Twice And Who Will Continue To Live Until He Dies Of Old Age, but he can’t help but to worry. And to jump to wild conclusions. It’s always been his brand, probably inherited from his mother.

He knocks again, this time practically banging on the door until it rattles. 

Minutes pass just as silently as they did before, and Draco’s got half a mind to magically break down the door when he hears something faint from the other side - a sound that’s immediately recognizable to him after being raised in a household full of wooden floors and house elves: the sound of an elf’s feet scrabbling on the floor.

The doorknob turns and the door begins to swing open, but almost immediately tries to slam shut again. Draco’s reflexes aren’t like they used to be when he was a Seeker in school, but he’s still able to jam his right foot in the doorway before it closes completely again. He hears someone swear and grunt out, “Kreacher-!” from beyond the door. 

_ Harry. _

“Please, Master, you need to go outside! You need to speak to your friends! You need-mmph!” The elf - Kreacher - continues to try to speak, but his voice is considerably muffled now.

The door squeezes Draco’s foot painfully. Harry is trying to force it shut. “Please go away!” He shouts. “I don’t want to see you right now, Hermione!”

“Merlin, Harry, you’re crushing my foot,” Draco grits out.

The door lets up slightly. “Draco?”

“Yes, you wanker, now stop pushing on the door and let me in.”

Silence.

“What do you want?”

“Why else would I come to your house? I want to see you.” Draco tries to keep his voice as innocent as possible, knowing he’s playing dirty but not really caring that much.

Finally, the pressure lets off from Draco’s foot and the door opens, revealing Harry standing in his foyer, glasses askew, and hand covering Kreacher’s mouth.

“There. You’ve seen me. Now could you please leave? I’m not in the mood right now.” Harry grumbles, letting go of Kreacher. The elf lands on his feet and runs to grip Draco’s robes, his eyes red. 

“Master Malfoy! Please, talk to Master Harry. He hasn’t been eating, hasn’t been sleeping-”

“That’s enough out of you, Kreacher,” Harry snaps. 

Though he looks extremely unhappy to stop talking, Kreacher still obeys his master and slinks away, his eyes meaningfully meeting Draco’s 

“Harry. What’s going on?”

He shrugs and crosses his hands. “Nothing. Don’t listen to him.”

“Harry…”

“Did Hermione send you?” His eyes are narrowed, suspicious. “Because if she did, you should just bugger off.”

Draco steps further inside and closes the door behind him. “Yes,” he says, deciding to tell the truth, “she did send me. To make sure you’re still alive in here.”

Harry laughs at that, for some reason. His lips twist in a bitter half-smile. “Well as you can see, I’m not dead yet.”

“What’s this about you not eating or sleeping?” Draco asks. He takes a step toward Harry, but he counters it by taking two steps back. 

“It’s nothing. He was lying.”

“Bullshit.”

Irritated, Harry asks, “What do you want, Draco?”

“I want to know what’s been going on. Why you’ve been ignoring all your friends.”

“It’s none of your business. And I’m not ignoring them - I’m just…” He scrambles for an excuse. “Taking time off. Resting.”

“Again, bullshit. You look like a pack of Thestrals trampled over you not once, but twice.” And he does - his normally wily hair is dull and limp, his skin is dry and gray, his arms and legs are thinner than they were when Draco last saw him.

Harry grimaces but says nothing, back away from him wordlessly.

Draco steps forward to meet him; they’re practically in the sitting room by now, and out of the corner of his eye Draco spots several open bottles of liquor strewn around the room and laying on the floor. “Merlin,” he can’t help himself exclaiming. “How much have you been drinking? Are you drunk right now?”

“Not that much!” Harry defends himself hotly. “And no!”

Draco regards him. It seems the last part is true, at least. If anything Harry looks hungover as all hell.

“Harry, everyone’s worried about you.”

“That’s their problem”

Ignoring him, Draco continues, trying to keep his voice soft and calming. “The least you could do is receive their owls. What good does it do to make them believe you’ve died?”

“I don’t know,” he mutters in response.

_ Merlin’s balls.  _

Draco suddenly realizes why he feels so hot, why his hands feel so jittery. The anger, the lashing out, the self-exclusion, the self-destruction - it’s all so familiar. Too, too familiar. 

“Harry. Listen to me.”

He’s never told anyone about this - not even his mother.

“I understand.”

His eyebrows furrowed and voice defensive, “What? What do you understand?”

Draco swallows thickly. “In Azkaban. And even after. I was just like you.”

Harry stares at him blankly.

“For all five years of my sentence I rot in my own body.”

From outside, the wind howls.

“I didn’t want to eat. Couldn’t sleep because of the nightmares. As each day passed I understood less and less why I was alive.”

Draco steadies his breathing.

 

[Reference to attempted suicide in next paragraph]

 

“I tried...to kill myself.” His tongue almost stumbles on his words from not having enough practice saying them. “Multiple times. I thought that was the only way I could repent for what I had done.”

 

[Reference over]

 

They aren’t making eye contact anymore. Harry stares at his bare feet and Draco looks at some indistinct point in the distance.

“Ultimately, I was angry at myself for being so weak. For not being the person I wanted to be - I wanted to change myself most of all, but I didn’t know how. And because I didn’t know how, I hated myself even more. And that hate paralyzed me. It was a vicious cycle.”

Draco closes his eyes. “But gradually, I learned - that change was always shit that didn’t  _ feel  _ like change. It was small, seemingly inconsequential things. It was picking up a few of the pieces I played as a boy. It was taking care of the children while Pat cooked. It was showing up to work at the Muggle coffee shop. It’s going about my day to day clinging on to hope that what I am doing will turn me into someone I can finally be proud of.”

When he opens his eyes again, Harry is staring at him with such an intense expression on his face that Draco feels a flush rising to his cheeks.

“You’ve done it already.”

“I-what?”

“You’ve become that someone. You should be proud of who you are  _ now. _ You’re no longer an ex-Death Eater in Azkaban, you know that right? You’re twenty-eight now. An adult. Not a kid making stupid mistakes anymore. You’ve grown. Everyone can see it. I’m just…” His face falls. “...jealous.”

It’s like the wind’s been knocked out of Draco. His mind spins. “Jealous?” He can’t hide the complete and utter shock in his voice. “Of me? Harry, you have everything I’ve ever wanted.” The memories of the recent Weasley family Christmas surface in his mind: a night filled with warmth, love, and acceptance. “A family. Friends.”

“But you have that too!” Harry bites his lip before continuing. “I went to your concert.”

Draco’s eyebrows shoot up. “The Ministry one?”

“No. The Muggle-only one at the club. I went in secret.”

“Oh.”

“I was there for the whole thing. I heard your speech. I saw the way you cared about the kids and Belle and Ava and Pat. That’s your family - and your mother too. They all love you a lot, you know.” Draco suddenly feels unsteady, so he sits on the end of the couch. “You’re not alone. Not at all.”

“You’re right,” he admits. “But they’re too good for me. I don’t deserve them.”

Harry sits beside him, their thighs touching. “But you do! Draco, you deserve to be loved. To feel happy.”

The wind outside has stopped, and the energy of the two men’s conversation has dipped - both too tired to remain angry at each other. Kreacher is nowhere to be seen, but Draco wouldn’t be surprised if he were in the next room listening in.

“I could say the same of you.”

Harry looks at him, eyes so very green.

“That you deserve to be happy.”

They are quiet for a moment before Harry breaks the silence with a slight chuckle. “We’re both idiots, aren’t we?” There are tears rapidly collecting in his eyes.

Draco manages to offer him a small smile. “Yes, we are. But not without reason.”

Both men take a long time to mull over each other’s words.  _ Happy.  _ Draco tests out the word in his head.  _ I deserve to feel happy? Even after all that I’ve done?  _ He can’t believe it. But for the first time, he’s trying to.

Light from the setting sun tries to enter the house, tries to illuminate the sitting room, but can’t get past the thick, custom-made 18th century drapes, so Draco and Harry have no choice but to sit in semi-darkness.

“I think…” Harry begins before stopping abruptly.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Draco takes his hand into his own. Harry looks at him warmly. 

“I think the War did this to me,” he gestures to the bottles and trash littering the floor and table. “It changed me. Made me weak. Hermione’s always known, I think, but I didn’t want to admit that she was right. That I didn’t come out as unscathed as everyone thought I would. Or expected I would.”

Emotion fills Draco - fills his heart, his lungs, his throat, making it hard for him to breathe let alone speak. “The War has changed us all. Every single one of us,” he manages to get out. “It’s only natural that we’d be broken, shattered by it.” Squeezing Harry’s hand, he tells him, voice raw and fiercely honest. “Humanity isn’t weakness.”

Night passes, taking its time as it does so. For hours Draco and Harry do nothing more than sit, fingers intertwined on the couch, occasionally speaking to each other in hushed tones, but mostly just existing beside each other silently. 

In the middle, Draco rises to use the restroom and secretly sends Hermione and Ron a Patronus telling them everything is alright.

Eventually, they fall asleep leaning on each other, and when they do, Kreacher gently covers them with a blanket and replenishes the heating charm so the bitter cold does not rouse them as they find some peace in sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

Harry wakes the next morning with a jolt. This is not his bed. There's a crick in his neck. And someone with long, pale arms and a warm breath is spooning him from behind, their two bodies flush up against each other on his narrow couch.

Last night comes to him quickly, undulled by alcohol and bad decisions for the first time in weeks. It's Draco. Draco is the one spooning him. 

As Harry is trying to figure out a way to escape without waking Draco and making it awkward, the latter shifts. Fuck.

"Mm,” Draco groans. Harry turns his head a little so he can see him.

In his half-sleeping state, he's gorgeous: features relaxed and peaceful, long eyelashes fanned out on his cheek, hair mussed. 

Draco opens his eyes and slowly turns to look at Harry, pinning him with his raw, unfiltered gaze. "Good morning."

If Harry wasn't red before, he sure as hell is now. "Good morning."

Draco peels his arms away from Harry and he immediately misses the warmth they provided. "Sorry."

"It's alright." Kreacher is nowhere to be seen, but Harry suspects he threw a blanket onto them sometime during the night. The thought of his house elf seeing Draco spooning him...is embarrassing, to say the least. "Would you like breakfast?"

Draco lets out a soft snort at that. "You can cook?"

Affronted, Harry replies. "Yes?"

"I'm surprised."

"I am an adult, you know." Harry turns his body so that he and Draco are face to face, so close that their noses are practically touching. "I do actually take care of myself, usually."

The empty takeout boxes littered around the room don't speak, but if they did, they would be mocking him.

"I believe you," Draco breathes. "Would you like some help?"

"With cooking?"

He jerks his head in a half-nod, eyelids drooping.

"I've got it. You can go back to sleep."

"Mm." His eyes are already closed at this point, and he looks like he's about to drift off at any moment.

"Any requests?"

For a moment, Harry thinks Draco's gone back to sleep already. But then he speaks, voice low and husky. "Eggs. And bacon."

"Got it," Harry says. He carefully stands up from the couch, arranges the blanket around Draco so he doesn't get cold, and heads into the kitchen.

Eggs. Bacon. Harry doesn't even remember the last time he went out and bought himself cereal, let alone anything else. He's prepared to apparate over to the Muggle supermarket a few blocks over before he spots, out of the corner of his eye, a pile of cooking supplies and ingredients strewn haphazardly on the counter. 

Kreacher, he thinks, a fondness rising in his chest. The old elf might not be going senile as quickly as Harry thought.

It's been a while since he last cooked - go figure - but some things, like making breakfast, have been ingrained in him since childhood. Since the Dursley's. It's practically muscle memory at this point: beating the eggs, cooking them in the pan, frying the bacon.

Soon, the smell of breakfast hangs in the air. It isn't until then that Harry realizes how desperately hungry he is. He's found that, all his life, he's had a difficult time recognizing that his body is hungry - probably due to having to suppress it for so long as a child - but he's never gone weeks and weeks barely eating and barely feeling it at all like this before. He can't help but to sneak a bacon strip before going to wake Draco.

When he walks into the sitting room, he sees that Draco is already awake - sitting upright, rubbing at his eyes, and stretching his long legs. "Smells good," he says.

"It's ready."

"Thank you." He stands and the two men walk to the kitchen together, sitting at the table where Harry has already set up plates, utensils, and napkins for them. They take a seat directly opposite from one another.

While chewing on a piece of bacon, Draco comments, "Wow." Behind him, the sun shines through the window and sets his blond hair alight. It's almost like there's a halo around his head.

"Wow what?" Harry peels his eyes away and begins loading his plate with scrambled eggs.

"I don't know." He looks thoughtful. "I'm not used to being cooked for, to be honest. I don't have house elves anymore."

"Is it good?" Harry asks, not sure if he's referring to the food or to the feeling of being cooked for.

"It's good. A good feeling. None of my exes knew how to cook, so I was always the one doing it. And now I cook for the children when Pat's tired."

A shame, Harry thinks. Pat, his exes, all of them are missing out on the sight of Draco Malfoy sitting at the breakfast table forking eggs into his mouth and making direct, steady eye contact. He can't believe they would be willing to pass the view up.

"It's nice to have someone to cook for, too."

Draco gives him a wicked grin. "I didn't know you were so domestic, Harry."

Draco calling Harry by his given name does strange things to his heart, he's found. 

"Shut up," he mutters, looking down at his plate.

"Let me guess - cooking gives the Saviour one more way to look after people?" 

"Only people that matter." They lock eyes for a long moment. Surprisingly, he is not the first one to look away - Draco is, face reddening. 

"I will never get used to how straightforward you can be."

Harry smiles and says nothing, opting instead to shovel some more eggs into his mouth.

After all the eggs and bacon have been devoured and all the plates washed and put up, Harry puts on some tea and leans against the counter, watching Draco watch him.

"Is there something on my face?" He blurts out.

"No."

"Then what is it?"

He watches Draco chew on his lip, mesmerized. "How are you feeling?"

Old habits, defense tactics rise to the tip of Harry's tongue, but he tries to suppress them. "I'm...okay."

"What are your plans for today?"

He hadn't thought that far, hoping instead that this peaceful bubble of breakfast with Draco, living with Draco, would somehow never end. "I don't know. See Hermione and Ron, probably." He flushes with shame at the thought of going to them and begging for forgiveness that he doesn't deserve. 

Draco nods. "They will be happy to see you."

The water boils and Harry makes them tea.

"Thank you," Draco says as he accepts the mug Harry offers him.

They drink in silence for a little bit. Harry revels in the warmth that sunlight brings him. The sky outside is clear, but the snow on the ground remains unmelted - probably staying that way until spring comes again. 

"Would you like me to come with you?"

"No," Harry answers immediately before quickly wincing. "I mean, I would rather if you didn't."

"Okay." The line of Draco's throat shifts as he swallows. "I should go," he says, setting the half-full mug down.

"Oh."

"I have a meeting with a Muggle real estate agent. And then I'm going to see the children." 

"Real estate agent?"

Draco smiles. "I'm looking for a new home for the children, remember?"

"Oh. Right. Wow." Harry flushes. He's been so wrapped up in his own problems that he's forgotten what happened to the orphanage. 

"Yes. So I'd better go." Draco stands, chair legs scraping the floor, and Harry follows suit.

They walk to the front door together and when Draco steps out, instead of apparating away, turns and takes Harry's hand, his palm smooth and his fingers strong. "Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?" For the first time since they woke up, Draco looks unsure of himself, eyes shifting between Harry and whatever's behind him. 

"Yes," Harry breathes. "That would be great."

Draco gives his hand a pleasant little squeeze, his furrowed eyebrows smoothing out and his smile growing less strained, more natural. "Fantastic. I would like to cook for you, if you don't mind."

Unable to conjure up words, all Harry can do is nod mutely. 

He conjures a scrap of paper, inscribes something on it with only his wand, and replaces his hand in Harry's with it. "Here is my address; it's in a Muggle neighborhood and I don't have a  _ Fidelius _ on it, so be careful. Good luck today."

With that, he flashes Harry one last grin before disapparating with a small 'pop.'

After Harry closes the door, he has half a mind to go back to bed. To hide away again. To not go and see Hermione and Ron, after all, and to lie to Draco that he did when he inevitably asks during dinner.

But what Draco told him last night, that  _ change was always shit that didn't feel like change _ , has been turning over and over in his mind since he woke up. It's true that Harry wants to change; he's known all along that his lifestyle isn't sustainable or healthy in the slightest, but he was always unsure of how to take the first step. He was afraid that he would fail and run out of options. 

_ I can do this at least. _ Talking Hermione and Ron comes like second nature to Harry - it's a good, easy place to begin.

 

In the end, he decides against Flooing directly into their house, and instead apparates to their front door and knocks. It feels so strange to do so - it makes him feel like a stranger, instead of a best friend - but it seems like the right thing to do after all that he’s put them through the last few weeks. 

“Coming!” Hermione shouts from inside the house.

After a few moments, she opens the door. Harry only has time to catch a glimpse of her hair in neat braids and her light blue robes before he’s engulfed in a hug.

“Harry!” He only registers her screaming his name a split second after the fact.

From behind her, Harry sees Ron emerge from a darkened hallway, rubbing his eyes blearily. When he sees them in the doorway, he immediately rushes over and joins their hug without saying a word.

Eventually, they migrate deeper into their house and sink onto their couch, all three adults still clutching at each other. Hermione begins to cry silently.

“Thank Merlin you’re alright...” She says. Her tears begin to soak into Harry’s shirt.

Ron cups Harry’s face and says nothing, his eyes shining.

_ Merlin.  _ How had he not seen this before? He thought they would be angry, furious at him for ignoring them and treating them so badly and worrying them for weeks, but look less angry and more...tired - their shoulders slumped with relief. How had he taken the people who love him most in the world for granted before?

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He tells them fervently.

“Where have you been?” Ron asks.

“Grimmauld Place. I’m sorry I warded the Floo. And sent your owls away.” 

Hermione lifts her head and looks at him. “It’s okay. As long as you’re alright.”

“I’m sorry.” Harry doesn’t know how many times he has to say it before it’s enough. “I’m okay. Draco came and talked to me.”

They perk up at the mention of Draco. “What did he say?” Ron asks.

“A lot of things.” He pauses. “Mainly he made me realize that I haven’t been fair to you. Or to myself, either. Hermione, you were right. I’m sorry. I think…” He falters. “I think I should see that Mind Healer, after all.”

“Oh Harry,” she whispers, her brown eyes watering again.

“I know it’s not...an excuse but...I’ve been going through a lot recently.”

He looks to his friends for reassurance, encouragement to go on, and he finds it easily. “And I want to get better. So I’m going to try to do that from now on.”

Ron holds his left hand and Hermione holds his right and Harry feels on the verge of tears, inexplicably. “So please...be patient with me.”

“Of course we will,” they say almost in unison. 

He swallows. “Thank you. And I’m sorry, again.”

The three of them hug again - it’s a little awkward with all of them sitting on the couch, but they somehow manage it.

“We’re always here for you, Harry. You know that, right?” Hermione says.

“Yes, I always knew,” he whispers. “I guess it’s finally sinking in, now.” 

They end up talking for so long that Harry stays for lunch, by which time Rose has returned from spending time at the Burrow. As soon as she spots Harry, she gleefully jumps right into his arms, demanding him tell her where he’s been and if he’s brought any souvenirs for her.

He tells her that no, he hasn’t gotten anything for her, but promises to do so soon.  _ Candy,  _ he decides should satisfy her and her sweet tooth. When he looks back up, Hermione and Ron are holding hands, smiling warmly at him.

 

Filled with a new burst of confidence after talking to Hermione and Ron, Harry goes back to Grimmauld Place in the afternoon and immediately begins writing letters.

First to Neville, apologizing for ignoring him, explaining a little bit his situation, and proposing that they meet up so he can properly tell him everything in person. 

Next to Andromeda and Teddy, explaining why he hasn't had dinner with them - Andromeda, mostly, since Teddy is at school - in weeks. He hopes they understand, and can forgive him. He promises himself that he'll be a better godfather from now on - it's what Teddy deserves, and it's what Tonks and Remus would've wanted for their son.

Finally, he sends one to Kingsley. Harry knows that he's been a horrible employee over the years, and probably an even worse friend. He fully expects to be fired, but he tries apologizing anyways, for his behavior and for trying to quit so rashly. 

Being an Auror used to be his dream, back when he still held a starry-eyed view of law enforcement, but it's not anymore, and Harry's not sure what's replaced it, yet. The least he can do, he reasons, is continue doing paperwork until the neo-Death Eater case wraps up. Then, he can quit with a clear conscience and begin looking for what he's missing, what he really wants to be doing with his life.

His hand cramping from writing so much in such a short amount of time, Harry just about manages to tie the last one onto his owl and send them all off. He sits back in his chair and closes his eyes.

On the surface, nothing much has changed inside of him since yesterday. He still feels dull, lifeless, and it seems like everything he does, even the smallest movements, makes him want to curl up and sleep for hours upon hours. 

Hope is a funny thing; firmly in his grasp one moment and banished in the next. The road ahead of him seems so long. How can he possibly repair and make up for ten years of self-sabotage? 

_ But I'm not alone _ , he reminds himself firmly.  _ I have never been. _

He stands and draws open his bedroom curtains, letting the afternoon light flood in. The neighborhood children are out to play today, and Harry watches their small forms run and jump down the street and all over their front yards.

An owl flies over and taps on his window. It's from Draco; Harry knows because he recognizes the handwriting right away.

 

_ Harry, _

 

_ Dinner will be ready at 6pm. _

 

_ See you soon, _

_ D.M. _

 

Harry flips the note over and writes on the back:

 

_ Draco, _

 

_ I can’t wait. _

 

_ Harry _

 

After fastening the note onto the owl's leg again, it swoops right back out and flies off into the distance. He checks the time with his wand: 4:26pm. That's enough time. Making a snap decision, he grabs his coat, jogs down the stairs, and leaves his house altogether, walking in the direction of the small park he's always wanted to visit, but has never had the emotional capacity to do so.

His journey is quick and mostly uneventful save for a few parents of the Muggle children waving at him as he passes by. He waves back, a bit hesitant. This must be the first time they've seen him out and about in ages. Years, maybe. They're probably not alarmed by his sudden reappearance because, as far as they know, 12 Grimmauld Place doesn't even exist and he probably lives elsewhere. They must be wondering what he's doing here.

The park, as it turns out, is much smaller than he expected. There are a few play structures for the kids, most of them either covered in snow or iced over: three swings, a slide, some monkey bars. A single park bench stands off to the side. And it seems that beyond the park there's a gentle slope downward, a hill that must be perfect for sledding, which is what the children who are here now are doing.

Harry walks over to the bench, makes sure no one is watching, and spells some of the snow off before taking a seat. He watches as two children climb onto their sled and are pushed by a third - all three yelling and laughing.

It's a humble place, that's for sure. Nothing really for adults to do except sit and make sure the children don't hurt themselves, but oddly, Harry doesn't mind. For the first time in a long time, he allows himself to be with his thoughts, and only his thoughts.

He thinks about everything. He thinks about the letters he sent, if their recipients have read them yet. If they accept his apology. If they can forgive him. 

Guilt curls in his stomach but he tries not to let it stop him from doing what needs to be done. 

He thinks about Draco and how he was right. About everything.

Harry deserves to be happy, and self-sabotage won't ever accomplish that. 

Snowflakes begin to drift down, settling soundlessly on his lap, on his coat, and probably in his hair.

He thinks about Ron and Hermione and Ginny and Luna. He thinks about all of the Weasleys and how far they've come. 

He thinks about how he's spent so long being jealous of their happiness that it never occurred to him that he was capable of attaining it too, if only he actually tried. He was so afraid of failure that he managed to convince himself that he wouldn't ever be able to succeed in the first place.

He rubs his face and, in doing so, brushes off the flakes of snow that have settled on his nose, eyelashes, and eyebrows.

How many opportunities has he squandered just because he was too afraid? 

What did happen to his "Gryffindor bravery," like Draco said?

He checks the time, careful to keep his wand hidden from the Muggle children. Almost six. He’d better get going.

The prospect of seeing Draco makes the trip back to Grimmauld Place much quicker than the trip from it. The Muggle parents wave at him again and he waves back with slightly more enthusiasm this time.

Fingering the address in his pocket, Harry apparates to the closest apparition point, and walks the rest of the way to Draco's flat.

Draco does live in a Muggle neighborhood, like he said, and fairly busy one, at that. Muggles crowd the sidewalks and cars try to weave through the street, honking as they go. A strong aroma of baked goods drifts out of one of the stores, and when Harry peers in through its window, he sees racks upon racks of bread and other pastries.

It’s not exactly the living conditions Harry had pictured Draco choosing. It’s loud, chaotic, and cramped. Harry wonders how the calm, prim and proper Draco Malfoy can stand it.

Though it takes Harry a few tries to find the right building, soon, he’s climbing the stairs to the second level and counting door numbers, stopping at ‘204.’ The doorbell seems to be broken - removed altogether, really, leaving only an empty socket and a few loose wires - so Harry knocks as loudly as he can.

He waits.

Draco answers the door, says, “I’m sorry I’m being rude - it’s just the food is almost finished but please come on in,” and promptly dashes back inside, adjusting the strap of his ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron.

Harry watches his back disappear around the corner to where he assumes is the kitchen, and steps through the threshold. 

Draco’s apartment is...nice. He has a gray couch that looks like it’s been ripped open, lost some of its filling, and was sewn back up again; a few bookshelves that are mostly bare save for what Harry thinks are musical scorebooks; and an electronic keyboard in the corner with Harry’s gift to him - the Enchanted Scorebook - sitting on it, cover closed.

His walls are peppered with Muggle photos. Harry walks along them, inspecting each in depth. There’s one of Draco playing the piano, his brow furrowed in concentration. There’s one of what Harry thinks are children from the orphanage - Draco isn’t in that one. There’s one of Draco with his arms thrown around Belle and Ava in front the club; he has longer, shoulder-length hair in it, which captures Harry’s attention for a little bit.

From the door leading to the kitchen comes the sound of the stove shutting off. Harry peels his gaze away from the photographs and walks in.

“Feel free to take a seat,” Draco tells him, carefully plating what seems to be a mix of mushrooms and asparagus.

“Is there anything I can do?”

Draco points to a cupboard. “Do you mind setting the table? Sorry about this.”

“No problem,” Harry says easily, opening the cupboard door and pulling out two plates and two glasses.

“The beef took longer than I thought it would.”

Harry sets the table; it’s small, but perfect for two people facing each other.

“Okay,” Draco brings a plate of beef and the plate of mushrooms and asparagus to the table. “There, it’s done.” He sighs and wipes his hand on his apron before untying it and tossing it onto the counter. “Let’s eat.”

They take their seats and Draco pours them both some wine. “It goes very well with Beef Bourguignon,” he explains to Harry. 

The wine isn't bad, Harry notes when he and Draco take a sip at the same time.

"So," Draco begins, "how was today?" He's trying to sound nonchalant, but failing.

"It was good. I talked to Hermione and Ron and sent off some apologies."

"Mm," Draco grunts in response as he chews on a stalk of asparagus.

Harry piles some beef and mushrooms onto his plate. "And I thought a lot about what you said. You were right. About all of it."

His soft-looking lips quirk up into a cheeky grin. "As I often am."

More and more, Harry finds Draco's cockiness less irritating and more...endearing. He can't help the warm smile spreading across his features. "Of course."

"What specifically was I right about?"

"That I can change."

Draco says nothing, cutting into a piece of beef.

"'I'm sorry for not coming to the Ministry concert," Harry blurts out. "Hermione told me that it was incredible. That you were incredible."

Draco ducks his head, pleased. "It went alright. And apology not accepted, Harry."

Harry stares at him.

"My feelings have been hurt so badly that the only way you could make it up to me is by going to another one."

_ Merlin. _ "You're a treasure," Harry accidentally says out loud.

This flusters Draco, a pretty red flush climbing his face. "Just eat your food," he mutters.

They fall into a comfortable rhythm for the rest of dinner - asking about each other, sending banter back and forth. Harry learns that the children are doing well, and that Draco is very close to finding a suitable home for them. He learns that Narcissa loves the orphans, and likes to host dinner parties for them at her cottage.

"I have a picture taken at one of them hanging on the wall," Draco tells him, gesturing toward the sitting room. "Every time I see it, I'm reminded of how quickly they've grown up. You should've seen them when I first met them. Angelica only came up to here - " he holds up a hand to show Harry. "And now she's a teenager."

Most importantly, Harry learns many things that Draco doesn't explicitly tell him. When he tells him that he often goes on midnight strolls, Harry learns that he, too, still has nightmares from the War.  When he tells him that he loves the hustle and bustle of Muggle London, he learns that he never goes into Wizarding neighborhoods anymore if he can help it. When he tells him that his flat is so empty because he hardly ever does anything more than cook, sleep, and practice piano in it, Harry learns that he's lonely. 

Harry doesn't know what to do with all this information. It practically overwhelms him, filling every crevice of his thoughts until he's dizzy with Draco - his presence, his words, the smooth, precise way he cuts his food and brings it to his mouth.

After dinner, they wash the dishes together at Harry's insistence - he soaps up and scrubs each one carefully and hands it off to Draco to dry and put away. They don't use magic for any of it, for some reason. They don't need it. It's good just like this, using their own hands.

“Would you like another glass?” Draco asks him when they’re done, refilling his own with wine.

“Sure.”

They migrate to the couch. It’s so small that it’s practically a loveseat, and to sit comfortably, their thighs and shoulders have to touch. 

Harry clutches at his wine glass with both hands so they don’t fidget as much. “How’s your research going?”

Letting out a small sigh, Draco says, “I haven’t been working on it so much lately.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?” He retorts, eyeing Harry over the rim of his glass as he drinks. “I’ve been quite busy, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Oh. Right.”

“But it’s going alright, I think. I’m starting to pick it back up again.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes. Thank you again for your Christmas gift to me, by the way. It’s been very helpful. Though, in the hands of an amateur like me it might be wasted.” He lets out a laugh at that.

“You’re not an amateur. If you’re an amateur, then what am I?”

Draco looks at him, amused. “A beginner, I believe is the term.”

“Draco. You’re a professional jazz pianist. Give yourself some credit. You’re much better than I’ll ever be.”

“Oh, Harry.”

“What?”

“I appreciate the flattery but-”

Harry cuts him off, indignant, “It’s the truth!” 

One slender finger is laid on Harry’s lips, shutting them up. “Hush.” Before Harry realizes it, they’ve gotten quite close. So close that Harry could probably count every single one of Draco’s eyelashes if he weren’t so distracted. “I was going to ask you something before you so rudely cut me off,” he says, no venom in his words.

There’s something mesmerizing about the way Draco’s mouth moves to form each sound and word that comes out of it. “Sorry. What were you going to ask?”

“If I could kiss you.”

“Oh,” Harry says, a bit dimly.

Unfortunately, Draco takes this as an outright rejection, and he pulls away quickly. “It’s alright if you don’t want to, I promise, I just thought this was a date but if you don’t see it that way then that’s fine, too.” He doesn’t look at Harry. “We can still be friends.”

“Wait. Draco, wait. Yes. You can kiss me. And yes, this is a date, I think.”

Draco sets his glass of wine down on the coffee table and cups Harry’s face with both hands. “Thank Merlin,” he breathes before meeting his lips to Harry’s.

And then they’re kissing. And kissing. And touching - Merlin, the deft hands that have touched countless piano keys countless times, the same deft hands that made him dinner, are stroking the sides of his face, his jaw, down his neck, rubbing his shoulders.

Merlin.  _ Merlin. _

Harry can’t believe this is actually happening. “I can’t believe this is actually happening,” he murmurs into Draco’s mouth in between slow, wine-flavored kisses.

Draco lets out a breathy laugh in response and kisses Harry again. When they resurface, he says, “I’ve been wanting to do this for so long.”

“For how long?” 

They kiss again. “Draco, tell me for how long,” Harry says while leaving sloppy kisses down his neck.

A shiver visibly runs through Draco’s body, and he practically moans: “Hogwarts. Since then. And definitely since Christmas break.”

Harry holds him closer. “Me too,” he tells him.

He huffs in laughter. “I can’t believe it’s taken us this long.”

Another kiss, firm and hot. “Me neither.”

“If only your ego had shrunk earlier…”

Grinning, Harry says, “That’s my line.”

“Sure, Potter,” He says, laying back until his head is propped up by the armrest, a smirk playing at his lips.

“Do you want-”

“No.” Draco pulls on Harry’s sleeve until he gives in and lies down with him - it’s a tight fit, but cozy. “This is good.” He kisses him. His lips are indeed as soft as they look. “Just this is good.”

They lay like that for a while, Draco’s arms thrown around him and Harry’s face nestled between Draco’s head and shoulder.

“Sorry about my couch,” Draco says, breaking the silence. “I swear it’s comfier when it’s just one person on it.” He begins to rub Harry’s back in circles, and he can’t help closing his eyes and breathing in Draco’s smell.

“‘s okay.”

“I got it for five pounds, so I suppose I shouldn’t be complaining.”

Harry snorts. “Yeah.”

“Not like your sixteenth century, dusty behemoths are any better. I swear several layers of dust have physically molded with the fabric.” They both laugh, and when they do the entire couch vibrates with joy.

“Purebloods really weren’t a fan of change, huh?” Harry comments while idly feeling the stubble growing on Draco’s chin.

“No,” Draco sighs. “they weren’t.”

“Hey,” Harry says suddenly, trying to prevent the conversation from taking a wrong turn. “if you hate the decor so much, what do you think about giving me some tips? I’ve been meaning to throw out all the old stuff and make it more...homey for a while now.”

One eyebrow quirked up, he asks, “Are you really asking me to be your interior decorator? After you’ve seen my flat?”

“You’d probably be better than me at it, anyways. You’re the artsy one.”

“Mm.”

“I think you have a good eye for these things.”

“That, I have,” Draco says, looking at Harry intently with so much obvious fondness from the crinkle at the corner of his eyes to the slight dimple on his right cheek when he smiles that it sends his heart beating right up to the tips of his ears. “A good eye for things, I mean.”

Draco’s hand tousles Harry’s hair and combs through the strands. “But I see your point. Merlin knows you’ll need all the help you can get.”

Smiling, Harry rests his head back on Draco’s chest. “Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Though the neighborhood surrounding Draco’s flat seems lively, and like it would be loud at night, all Harry can hear is the occasional, faraway car horn. And what seem to be Draco’s neighbors talking through the wall.

“Are those your neighbors?”

“Yes. They’re a lovely couple who occasionally brings me food. I should introduce you, sometime.”

His heart swoops at the thought of Draco  _ introducing  _ him to his friends. Bringing him into his life. 

“I’d like that.”

Draco yawns and his eyes flutter shut - it really is unfair how long his eyelashes are.

Harry props himself up a little bit. “It’s late. I should probably get going.”

“Alright.” His eyes open again and study him. His voice hesitant, so soft it almost disappears in the dark of his sitting room. “Would you like to do this again?”

“Yes.” With more fervor: “ _ Yes. _ ” Feeling bold, Harry leans down and kisses Draco again just to prove his point. 

Draco smiles into his mouth. “Then you’d better get going, or you’ll end up sleeping over on my couch.”

Begrudgingly, Harry stops kissing him and the pair stand from the couch and head to the door.

“I’ll owl you,” Draco promises him.

“You better.”

“Are you going back to work?”

Harry looks away. “If Kingsley will let me back, yeah.”

“And I’m sure he will,” Draco assures him. “I will try to work around your schedule, then.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“No, seriously, Draco, thank you for-”

The wanker cuts his heartfelt statement of gratitude off with a _ kiss.  _ And a particularly nice one, at that.

“Good night, Harry,” Draco tells him before letting the door swing shut.

Harry can’t wait to see him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One fifteen hour flight later and I'm safely in China! Hope you enjoyed this chapter.
> 
> P.S: taking applications for ppl willing to snog on a lumpy couch with me :,)


	18. Chapter 18

Draco Malfoy didn't realize how lonely he was until he and Harry started....doing whatever it is they're doing. Eating with each other practically every other night? Sitting together on the cramped bench in the cramped Muggle park next to Grimmauld Place? Regularly holding hands and snogging? Draco has no idea. Their arrangement defies all labels, and neither of them have brought it up.

It's normal to crave a partner's touch after going so long without it, Draco knows this. It's normal to miss the warmth of another person, their smile, their footfall. It is normal to not want to be lonely.

But it's more than that, Draco thinks as he idly composes a short piece in his Enchanted Scorebook - a jingle for something, perhaps. 

Somewhere along the way, Draco got so used to never relying on anyone, never confiding in anyone, never sharing himself - which side of the bed he sleeps on, whether he likes to pour the cereal or the milk in first - that he convinced himself that he didn't need it.

But he needs it. He tries out his piece on the keyboard. Behind him, Harry snores on, his head bent at an awkward angle on the couch arm. If he wakes up with a crick in his neck, he has no one to blame but himself. 

He really needs it.

And, as much as Draco loathes to admit it, Harry was right: "You deserve to be happy." Draco deserves a lot of things: the glares while walking down Wizarding streets, the dozens of Howlers anonymously sent to him after he got out of Azkaban. Never, in the last ten years of his life and probably even before, did he have the audacity to include 'happiness' in that list. 

Rubbing his eyes, he checks his clock. It's past midnight. He knows that he still needs to practice to polish up his pieces in preparation for his next few concerts at the club, but it's late, and he's tired, and he needs to shoo Harry off to his own bed in Grimmauld Place - he reasons with himself.

"Harry," he says softly, shaking his shoulder.

"Mm?" His eyes flutter open. "Time's it?"

"Time for you to go back to your bed."

"Mm." Harry stretches, his back arching like a cat's. He makes no further move to leave, and his eyes close again.

"Harry."

"I know, I know."

Draco's fingers run through Harry's hair with a constant rhythm.

"Do you want to sleep over?"

"Yes," Harry replies immediately, no trace of sleep left in his voice. 

"Git," Draco says affectionately. "This is want you've wanted this entire time, isn't it?"

With a shit-eating grin on his face: "Maybe."

All Draco can do is sigh and shake his head. "Come on then, let's get you to bed."

Thankfully, Harry complies without further complaint and in a few minutes they're both tucked comfortably in Draco's rickety bed. It's strange to look over and see someone there laying beside him, Draco quickly finds. It's never happened before. He's never let anyone stay the night. In fact, he's barely let anyone see his flat in the first place.

Harry falls back asleep quickly, letting Draco look upon his face to his heart’s content. 

He’s so, unfathomably lucky, Draco thinks as he watches Harry’s chest rise and fall, that even after trying to push all the happiness out of his life, some of it snuck back in anyways. 

The first thing he does the next morning is send an owl to his mother. In it, he includes a lot. He hopes she's sitting down when she opens it.  
  
_Mother,_ __  
__  
_I realize that, in my last letter to you, I told you that I was doing fine. That the children, Belle, and Ava, were doing fine as well. The truth is, no one has been fine, and I'm truly sorry for only telling you now._ __  
__  
_It all started when, two months or so ago, someone from the neo-Death Eater group growing in London - a gang of young men with nothing else to do except for harassing Muggles and non-whites - invited me into the group. I turned them down, obviously. In retaliation, they burned down the orphanage. None of the children were hurt - thank Merlin - but it shook them very deeply, as you can imagine, especially since it was impossible to tell them who actually did it, and why._ __  
__  
_Mother, the truth was, I felt guilty. And I still do._ __  
__  
_So to help them, I organized and played in two benefit concerts to raise money for a new home while I paid for a temporary apartment. One was in the Amber Tap, the other was - and I know this is going to be shocking to you - partnered with the Ministry. It was a shock to me, as well. Both went very well, and I've already found and bought a new home for the children - I hope you will be pleased to know that it's quite close to your cottage._ __  
__  
_Again, I apologize for only confiding in you now. I didn't want you to worry, but I realize that, since you care about me, you would want to know what is happening in my life. I will endeavor to do better in the future._ __  
__  
_Your Son,_ __  
__Draco  
  
After he sends the letter off, he closes the kitchen window again to keep out the cold - though it is March, the winter still shows no sign of retreating.  
From inside his bedroom, Draco hears the tap running; Harry is awake.  
Draco turns his attention back to breakfast and decides to make them omelets.   
"Good morning." Draco turns and Harry is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, dressed in one of his few Muggle T-shirts - the one with 'One Direction' emblazoned in pink font on the front - and sweatpants that Draco forgot he even owned. He catches Draco's gaze and his cheeks grow pink. "I hope you don't mind."  
"I don't," Draco replies, perhaps a bit too quickly. He turns back around and continues beating the eggs. "And good morning. Would you like an omelet?"  
"Yes, please." Suddenly, Harry is right behind Draco, breath hot on his neck. "Do you need any help?"  
"No."  
"Here, let me find some fillings and get them ready to be cooked," he says, completely ignoring Draco and rooting around in his cabinets and fridge.   
Seeing Harry Potter browsing his fridge in the middle of his kitchen, barefoot and only dressed in Draco's clothes quickly melts any irritation he feels.  
“You bought more mushrooms!” Harry exclaims, holding up the bag of it that Draco had purchased from the market the day before. For some reason, the man really loves his mushrooms. It’s an interesting quirk, and Draco doesn’t mind it at all. He sees it as an opportunity to practice as many mushroom dishes as he can.

“We were out. And I know that you like them.” Draco replies. He’s been trying to be more upfront, like Harry. 

“Thank you.”

“It’s no problem.”

With their combined efforts, soon they produce two omelets - one loaded with mushrooms and spinach and one loaded with sausage. 

Harry downs his food and a cup of freshly brewed coffee - he had convinced Draco to finally invest in a coffee maker and to stop relying on the Muggle instant packets, and by “invest” Draco means he didn’t pay a single pound and that Harry took care of it all. Then, Harry slips on his Auror robes, kisses Draco goodbye,  and heads to work. He’s always sorry to go, but they both know he’s needed there. The investigation into the neo-Death Eaters hasn’t wrapped up yet. In fact, according to Harry, it doesn’t seem to even be coming close to a resolution.

Sighing, Draco levitates the dishes to the sink and flicks his wand to make them wash themselves while he gets dressed and heads out.

 

Pat greets him at the door and leads himself inside. “Good morning, Draco. I cut up some fruit if you want some.”

“No thank you, I’m quite full,” he says, giving some of the children a hug when they approach him with their arms thrown wide. “How are you all doing today”

It’s a true testament to the sheer resilience of children that most of them have settled into their temporary living situation in the past few weeks. Not all of their previous joy has returned - and Draco is planning on hiring a Muggle child psychologist to make sure they’re alright - but they seem more content now. They smile and laugh more readily than before, and their bouts of nightmares and bedwetting have decreased in frequency, much to Draco’s and Pat’s relief.

“I have an announcement to make,” he says without any preamble. He’s been waiting for this moment for a while.

The children all perk up and look at him, listening intently. A look of confusion, then apprehension crosses Pat’s face.

“It’s good news, I promise.” Angelica’s shoulders noticeably relax at that. “You all have a new home.”

Gasps, shouts of ‘Really?!’ fill the air. Pat looks faint.

“It’s out of the busiest neighborhoods of London, and closer to your schools. And it’s closer to my mother.”

The children are particularly pleased at the last part, if their increase in volume is anything to go by. They love visiting his mother, love her cottage, and love the seaside. He makes a mental note to set up a time for them to meet soon.

"When are we moving?" Dan asks.

“As soon as you all are ready, the house will be waiting for you.”

Pat's eyes are glistening when she comes up to Draco and wraps her arms around her. "I don’t know how you did it. Thank you so much," she whispers.

The children take this chance to mob Draco, too, until they're all hugging each other in one big pile in the middle of the sitting room.

In the early days, when many of them were children and toddlers and infants - all freshly orphaned - raising them was difficult. Late nights, early mornings, lots and lots of baby food and diapers and temper tantrums - Draco has no idea how Pat managed before he came along. They didn't have much funding then, either, and still don't have a lot. Not enough for a bigger house and not enough for an assistant, anyways. It was just Pat and Draco and hordes of children and none of them had anywhere else to go.

Pat was an orphan herself, and before she was offered the live-in position as the caretaker of the orphanage, she was sleeping on the streets. It was the best opportunity she'd ever come across. With the subsidies from the Muggle British government, she could both raise the children and keep herself alive. And when she had a child of her own, she could properly take care of it as well.

Draco presses a kiss to the top of her baby's head and promises to never let anything happen to them again if he can help it. They've already been through so much. The least they deserve is a stable home, food in their stomachs, and happiness. 

They begin packing that day, which doesn't take too long since they lost most of their belongings in the fire, anyways. Draco calls a few cabs for them, gives the landlord their two week's notice, and they're ready to go that very afternoon.

A letter comes from his mother during all of the commotion, and he quietly locks himself in the bathroom to read it.

 

_ Draco, _

 

_ Thank you for telling me. I had gotten the feeling that something was wrong, but I didn't want to pry if you weren't ready to share. _

 

_ If I said I wasn't afraid or that I didn't feel guilty as well, I would be lying. The thought that you, your father, and I believed in the same ideology makes me sick to my stomach - truly. There are no words to describe how sorry I feel for the children. You understand, don't you? _

 

_ All of that said, Draco, I don't blame you. I have told you this before, but I'll say it again: you were a child. As your mother, it was entirely my responsibility to raise you well and to protect you, and my petty prejudices blinded me. I failed you, and I am deeply sorry for that. _

 

_ I am so proud of you Draco, of the man you have become, and I am sure your father would be as well. The only thing I ask of you is to take care of yourself. I know you think you still have to atone, but I think you've done enough. The time has come for you to be happy, again. _

 

_ Please send me the orphanage's new address and tell me when they settle in. I very much would like to see them. _

 

_ Love, _

_ Your Mother _

Draco wipes at the tears streaming down his cheeks, folds the letter, and slides it into his pocket. 

“I’m an idiot, aren’t I?” He says, looking at himself in the mirror.

Harry wasn’t telling him anything new; his mother has been pleading for him to take time off, to lift the burden he’s imposed on himself for years. It’s just taken this long for him to finally let it sink in.

There’s a knock at the door. “Draco? Are you okay? You’ve been there a while.” Pat calls from outside, concern in her voice.

“Yes. I’ll be right out,” he replies.

After washing his face and covering some of the red splotches with some slight Glamour, he steps out.

“We’re ready to go, I think,” she says, beaming. “The kids are so excited.”

"Excellent, let's go then."

She grabs Draco's arm when he makes for the door. "Wait. I need to ask you something."

He knows what's coming. "Of course."

"How did you buy the house? How did you get the money?"

"Pat-"

She cuts him off, eyes burning. "Because if you used your own money for this or did something drastic, Draco, I don't know what I would do."

"I understand." Draco is tired. His mother's and Harry's words follow him everywhere, never giving him peace. He is done with lying. "The truth is, Pat, that I got the money from the Amber Tap benefit concert and a second one I put on elsewhere without telling you. We had enough because yes, I did use my own money, but I only used it to pay the rent for this place. I'm sorry for not telling you."

Her mouth gapes as she tries to find words.

"I foolishly thought I could do it all on my own." He hangs his head a little bit, tired of keeping it up.

Suddenly, she's hugging him, squeezing him tight - so tight - and rubbing his back with fervor. "Draco. Oh you're such a git, you know that?"

That surprises a laugh out of him.

"You should have told me."

"I know."

She pulls back a little bit and studies his face. "I'm cross at you."

"As you should be."

"You always do this!"

It's true. In the years that he's been involved in the orphanage, he's gone behind Pat's back to cook for the children, buy them toys - he bought all of them their phones - and personally go the headmaster of their school to beg him to let them enroll even though they could not afford the tuition. Everytime she found out, she had been extraordinarily thankful and angry at him at the same time.

"I know," he murmurs, resting his chin on the top of her head.

"You always do too much. I had my suspicions - for the past few weeks you've been looking like you were going to drop dead at any moment." When she sees the look on Draco's face, she adds, "What, did you think I wasn't going to notice?"

"Sorry."

"You know how you can make it up to me?"

He waits.

"Rest. After we move in, just go home and sleep for a few weeks straight. And don't even think about working. I'll beg Belle to give you paid leave if I have to." She's using her stern parent voice.

"Okay. I promise I'll rest."

"Good."

The front door creaks open - it's Angelica. "Pat? Drac- oh." She stops when she sees them, her eyes going wide. "Sorry, I didn-"

"I called it!" Dan exclaims, pushing past her and stepping inside. He turns to Angelica. "You owe me ten pounds."

"Wait, wait," Draco interrupts, letting go of Pat. "What did you bet on?"

"That you two were dating," Dan answers.

_ Merlin. _ "We're not dating."

"Dan, what did I tell you about betting on other people?" Pat says reproachfully. 

"How are you not dating?" Dan asks, his eyes wide. "You guys hug all the time!"

Angelica snorts, pats Dan once on the back, and leaves, covering her eyes in embarrassment. 

“Dan,” Draco says carefully, “you hug your siblings all the time.”

“But-”

“Besides, I’m dating someone else.” Draco wills his face not to heat, but it disobeys him.

Pat whirls around, eyes wide. “What? Who?”

“Come on, I’ll tell you in the car. We shouldn’t keep the drivers waiting,” Draco mumbles, making for the door.

In the end, the move takes an hour and a half, four separate cabs, and only one restroom break. Draco isn’t able to brief Dan or Pat on his situation with Harry, as he decides to ride in a different car than Pat to take care of the children, but he knows he’ll get around to it eventually.  

As the streets widen, the buildings shrink and fall away, and the horizon comes into view, Draco breathes a sigh of relief. There’s something about the city that’s too...cramped for his liking. Too stressful. He supposes his relatively quiet upbringing at the Manor - spending his days frolicking through his mother’s gardens and playing at the edges of the wood bordering them - has spoiled him.

He’s always been used to being alone.

But the children won’t be; they have him, his mother, Pat, and each other. 

_ Yes,  _ he confirms with himself as the house comes into view. It’s a modest two-story at the edge of a quiet suburb - brick and wood panelling, a sloped roof, big, airy windows, and yard that’s big enough to fit play structures in.  _ They will be fine.  _

The children in his car  _ ooh  _ and  _ aah,  _ pressing their noses up to the glass windows and leaving them foggy with their breath. They practically tumble out as soon as the car stops. 

With all of their help, they unload their luggage from the cars, thank the drivers, and watch them leave. Draco digs the house key up from his pocket.

"Shall we?" He asks, gesturing to the front door.

"Yes!" They all scream in unison.

He's more than satisfied with the house; it's close to some shops, their school, his mother's home, and it has three bedrooms - one for Pat, one for the girls, one for the boys - two bathrooms, a sitting room, a kitchen, and a playroom on the second level. And he only managed to buy it with the money he had because he bartered so effectively. And it didn't hurt that he’d dropped that the house was for the orphan victims of the tragic arson attack two months ago.

The furniture he managed to buy was minimal, unfortunately, but no one seems to mind. They run through the rooms, up and down the stairs, yelling about everything - their new beds, how big their rooms are, and how nice the playroom is. When Draco shows Pat and her child that they have a room to themselves, when all this time she's had to cram in with the other children, she wraps Draco in another tight, crushing hug.

Draco steps outside and sends a Patronus to his mother letting her know their location and that they've settled in already. She sends a reply Patronus almost immediately: a spider almost identical to his that says "Tell them I will be right over with dinner."

He steps back inside and tells them the news, sending them into another round of cheers.

"Is she bringing treacle tart? Please say yes." Antonia, a precious ten year old with big eyes and buzzed hair, asks him while tugging on his sleeve.

He says, "I don't know, but if she doesn't this time, you can ask her to bring some the next." His answer satisfies her, and she goes skipping off upstairs, where Draco can hear several of her siblings talking, laughing, and running around.

"Are you staying?" Pat asks him, beginning to unpack some of their belongings. Draco joins her.

"I want to," he begins, "but I can't. I'm sorry. I have some errands I need to run, but I'll be back tomorrow."

"Errands, eh?" There's a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Is that what people call dates these days?"

He flushes hotly. "No! We didn't make any plans for tonight."

"Seriously though. You don't have to come in tomorrow. I can handle them."

"But-"

"No 'buts,' Draco," she says sternly with eyebrow quirked up. "You deserve some rest. What errands are you running?"

There's no use in arguing anymore, Draco begrudgingly accepts. "I was going to let Belle know that I'm taking time off."

She smiles wide at that. "Fantastic. I'm proud of you, Draco."

"Thank you," he mumbles, resolutely looking down at the clothes he's organizing.

"So...this girlfriend of yours...."

"Boyfriend," he corrects her automatically.

"Oh! Sorry - this boyfriend of yours...."

"He's not my boyfriend. We're just dating."

She stops what she's doing and stares at Draco. "Wow. You must really like him."

He's suddenly aware that a smile and blush have slid onto his face without him realizing. 

"I'm happy for you, Draco."

He grunts in response.

"You should bring him around sometime," she comments. "Does your mother know yet?"

"Mer-God, no. Please don't tell her yet."

"I won't, I won't." She holds up her hands. "Just wondering."

They start unpacking the toiletries. "I just want you to be happy, Draco, and I know your mother wants the same. Belle and Ava, too. And the children."

He swallows thickly. The list of all the people who care about him has grown exponentially through the years, despite all his resistance. "I know."

"And if this man makes you happy...." she trails off thoughtfully. "....then hold on to him."

When Draco speaks, his voice comes out in a whisper. "Yes. I intend to."

He ends up staying until his mother arrives an hour later, pulling up into their new driveway in her car. She doesn’t say much, just kisses him on the cheek, offers him some of the cake she baked, and gives him a meaningful look and hug when he leaves. He knows they will talk later.

Neither Belle nor Ava are surprised when he asks for time off. He tells them that he’s sorry for the late notice, as he’s due for a concert in a few hours, and that he’s fine with his leave being unpaid as compensation, but they won’t hear of it.

Ava lays a hand on his shoulder. A lock of hair has escaped her shimmery blue hijab, but she doesn’t tuck it back. “Draco, it’s fine. You can go get some rest. We’ll figure it out.”

“Yes, we’ll be fine,” Belle adds. “Funnily enough, if you didn’t talk to us first, we were planning on telling you to take time off anyways. You’ve been working much too hard recently, Draco.”

He nods mutely. They have a group hug, and send him on his way with threats of what they’ll do if they find out he’s still working during what’s supposed to be his vacation time.

To Draco’s surprise, the window on the side of his flat is lit.  _ Did I forget to turn off the kitchen light?  _ He wonders while inserting the key and turning the lock.

It’s Harry. Harry Potter rises from the kitchen table when Draco enters, and exclaims, “Surprise!” On the table sits a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches and a large pot of what Draco recognizes immediately by smell as tomato soup - his favorite food.

“Harry.”

“I made some tomato soup because I know it’s your favorite.”

Draco crosses the distance between them and kisses Harry so intensely that he’s practically bent Harry in half over the table by the end of it. 

“Wow.”

“How did you know it’s my favorite?”

Harry fidgets a little bit. “I may have owled your Mum.”

“ _ What? _ ”

He touches Draco’s face. “Don’t be mad.” He pauses. “But she knows everything.”

“Merlin!” 

“And I didn’t really even plan on telling her! She just...made her own assumptions...”

Draco rubs his face. “I’m not mad. I just-Merlin, I saw her today and didn’t say anything.”

“Oh.”

“And she’ll probably want to meet you now.”

“Oh!” He licks his lips. “I’m fine with that.”

“You are?”

“Yeah, she’s your Mum. And she saved my life. Of course I’d want to properly meet her.”

A warmth wraps around Draco’s heart and squeezes. “Alright. We can do that soon. For now, let’s eat.”

Harry’s tomato soup, as it turns out, is delicious. “Your mother also owled me a few pointers,” he admitted. And even the grilled cheese - a food that’s so decidedly American that Draco’s managed to avoid it for all of his life - is to his liking, though he doesn’t particularly care to dip it in the soup before eating like Harry does.

It’s become a routine by now; after dinner they wash dishes together and settle in the sitting room - Draco either sitting on the couch with his feet in Harry’s lap working on his research or sitting at the piano composing, and Harry working on some paperwork from the office. Tonight, Draco chooses the couch, wanting to be close to Harry.

After an hour or so of working in companionable silence, Draco speaks up, heart in his ears.

“Harry.”

He looks up from his work, green eyes peering at him over his thick glasses frames “Yeah?”

I keep on thinking about what you said. That I deserve to feel happy.” Once he begins talking, Draco finds he can’t seem to stop. “When I reflect on all the times I sabotaged my own happiness, I feel so...angry at myself. I don’t want to feel like this. I want to be happy.”

Harry takes his hand while he talks and begins stroking it. “And what does that look like?” He asks, voice soft and encouraging.

“Taking care of the kids. Making music. Performing at the club. Teaching at Hogwarts. Researching.” He swallows. “Being recognized for it, even though it’s a egotistical.”

When Harry kisses him, he’s smiling so wide he’s afraid his lips will crack. “It’s not egotistical. You’ve worked more than hard enough to get here.”

“Thank you.” Draco wants to say more, so much more, but he can’t find the words.

“What about me?”

“What?” he chokes out.

Harry is teasing him. “Am I anywhere in that?”

Suddenly it’s hard to look Harry in the eyes, so he stares at the photo of the children hanging in the corner of the room. He knows he’s red - he can feel himself flushing all the way down to his toes. “Of course, you wanker. I thought that was a given.”

Harry says nothing, but just presses his forehead to Draco’s and laughs, breathy and delighted, before kissing him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah....love...


	19. Chapter 19

As soon as Harry steps through the threshold of _The Grace Note_ \- the cafe that he’d met Draco in what seems like ages ago, he spots Neville, who catches his eye but does not wave. Harry walks over and takes his seat.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Have you ordered anything?”

“I’m not hungry.” 

“Oh. Okay.”

“Let’s get this over with.”

“Neville-” Harry pauses, gathering his words. He’s the one who invited Neville here. He has one chance to make everything right. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t think I can say it enough.”

Neville stares out the window.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you out. You didn’t deserve that. You’re my friend, and I care about you. I did something awful.”

Harry’s painfully aware of the barista at the counter, who’s cleaning out one of the machines and probably listening  in.

“And I know this isn’t an excuse, just a reason, but I pushed you away because...I was afraid. Of disappointing you.” Harry takes a deep breath. “Because I was turning into someone I wasn’t proud of, I thought it would be better if you...weren’t around. To see it.”

They sit in silence for a little bit, and during that time a gaggle of teens enter the cafe, order, and settle noisily in a booth in the far corner. Harry wears away at his bottom lip and all the while Neville continues staring out the window at nothing, not meeting his eyes.

 Then, he speaks: “So what now?”

“Er…” Harry’s caught off guard for a moment. He’d expected Neville to fly into some sort of rage, not speak so quietly that he has to strain to hear. Not sit calmly in his seat, hands to himself. “I don’t know. What do _you_ want?”

Neville sighs and finally makes eye contact with Harry.”I don’t know either. I guess I want to be friends again.”

“I would really like that.”

“But if you pull some shit like this again, you’re in for it.”

Harry winces. “Understandable. I’d deserve it.”

“Friends?” Neville holds out his hand.

Awkwardly, Harry takes it. “Friends.” They shake, and something seems to shift - imperceptibly. “How’s your thing at Hogwarts, by the way? With Sprout?”

Neville brightens up considerably at this and proceeds to fill Harry in. He’s under her tutelage, and will probably be her last apprentice before her retirement. Together, they conduct research on all sorts of under-researched plants and are constantly discovering new magical properties. “And the best part, actually,” Neville explains, eyes shining, “is teaching. I never thought I’d love it so much, but I do.”

“...Wow. That’s great, Neville. That’s all bloody fantastic. I’m glad you’re doing well.”

“What about you?” The dreaded question.

“I-er-I’m good.” With more confidence: “Yeah, I’m actually doing pretty well.” 

“How’s Malfoy?”

“What?”

Neville furrows his brows. “You two are dating, right?”

Harry’s voice rises a few octaves in pitch. “Um. Maybe? How did you know?”

A scoff. “It was obvious, mate. At Hogwarts during break? You two were inseparable.”

“O-oh. I guess so.” Harry laughs, embarrassed. “We were that obvious huh?”

Rolling his eyes, Neville replies, “It’s always been obvious.”

They laugh at that, and suddenly Harry’s back in the Gryffindor boys dormitory again, staying up late with Neville and the rest, cracking jokes and giggling so loud the upperclassmen would pound on their door to get them to shut up.  

“...Thank you for reaching out, Harry.” Neville’s suddenly all sobered up, looking intently at Harry.

“Of course.” The group of teenagers in the corner burst into laughter. “It’s least you deserve. And it’s the least I could do.”

“You’re a good guy. I never once stopped believing that. And, the truth is, I’ve been asking after you from time to time. Hermione’s been keeping me in the loop. It sounds like you’ve been having a tough time.”

Suddenly, Harry’s all choked up. He can’t fathom why. “...Thank you. Thank you, it’s more than I deserve. And yeah, it’s been...a lot.”

“Want to grab drinks sometime? To properly catch up. Sorry - I’ve got to dash over to meet my boyfriend right now.”

“...Yeah, sure. I’d like that.” 

“I’ll owl you.” Neville stands and makes for the door, but turns at the last moment and says, “I care about you, Harry. I hope you’re happy.”

Harry waves him goodbye, and the door to the cafe closes with a soft tinkle of the bell. The barista catches Harry’s eye and smiles. 

He goes up, orders a coffee, and settles in for a while, sipping his drink and watching the clouds go by.

  


“Uncle Harry! Push harder!” Rose screams as she flies back and forth on the Muggle swing. He’s taken them to the park near Grimmauld place. There are a few other children there, swinging and playing on the slide, but they pay them little attention.

Giving in to her demands, he works to push her harder, until she’s swinging so high that he’s afraid for a moment that she will flip over to the other side completely. She doesn’t seem to sense the danger, only squealing with delight. It’s her first time at a Muggle park, on a Muggle swing.

The afternoon sun peeks out from behind a few clouds. His mood drops when he realizes he has work in the morning, but soars higher than before when he remembers he’s having dinner with Hermione, Ron, and Rose in a few hours and falling asleep in Draco’s arms a few more hours after that.

They’ve moved in together, effectively, over the past few weeks. It all started when Harry was too tired and lazy to go back to Grimmauld Place after a late night at Draco’s place, and everything changed organically from there. They don’t really talk about it. Harry finds that they don’t really need to - sometimes he swears Draco is using _Legilimency_ on him, that’s how receptive he is to his unspoken thoughts, but he knows he would never without his consent. 

It’s a little fast, and Draco’s mother made sure they knew that she thought so too when they had dinner together a week ago, but Harry has never been happier. What used to be tedious chores - laundry, cooking, cleaning - have become enjoyable with Draco there, doing and complaining about them alongside him. It’s still difficult for him to get up in the morning knowing that all that awaits him at work is a bland office and mountains of paperwork, but when Draco wakes him in the morning and all but orders him to go, Harry finds he cannot refuse. 

“Is it dinner time yet?” Rose yells as she continues swinging.

Harry checks his watch; Draco got so sick of him casting _Tempus_ every ten minutes that he bought one for him. “It is. You wanna come down?”

“Yes please! I’m hungry.”

Subtly, Harry uses some magic to help him slow Rose down. The pair walk back to Grimmauld house, and Harry Floos them back to her house.

Dinner goes well. 

Harry argues about Quidditch with Ron for a bit - for the first time in years, really, since Harry finally had enough energy to get back into the sport two weeks ago. Thankfully, Draco caught him up on the most important bits and even alluded to being open to going to a match with him in the future - as long as the Chudley Cannons aren’t playing.

Hermione tells him about her future plans for her nonprofit, which is very close to relaunching. She doesn’t ask, but Harry offers to be a spokesperson for it, anyways, and when he does, she beams at him. 

Harry brings up his earlier conversation with Neville, and Hermione and Ron don’t look too surprised. “We’re so proud of you, Harry.” Hermione tells him. “Yeah, you did something really difficult,” Ron agrees. A warmth settles in Harry’s chest. 

And when all the food has been eaten and Harry’s had two glasses of wine with Ron (Hermione sipping some tea), he stands up, hugs both of them, tells Ron he’ll see him tomorrow at work, and makes his leave.

Though he told him not to that morning, Draco is waiting up for Harry, hunched over his keyboard, composing like mad. He twists to look at Harry when he comes in. “Hey.”

Harry greets him with a gentle kiss. “Bed?”

“Hold on,” he turns back to his work, brow furrowed. “I need to finish these last few measures.”

“Draco…” Belle and Ava and Pat have already given Harry the rundown of how to deal with Draco when he gets like this - so focused on his work that he forgets to eat, to sleep, and to talk to anyone. The key is that Harry needs to be firm.

He sighs and pushes the hair out of his face, giving in immediately because he knows from experience that Harry won’t let up until he does. “Fine.” 

After Draco takes a quick shower, he finally slides in Harry’s waiting arms. His skin is hot and wet from the shower water.

“Goodnight, Draco,” Harry whispers, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“Mm. Goodnight.” And with that, Draco slips off into sleep. Harry knew he was too tired for his own good.

Night passes. When it leaves, Harry rises silently, makes breakfast, eats some, puts the rest under a heating charm for when Draco wakes up later, and leaves for work. 

The Ministry is quiet Monday mornings; many of its workers take their time coming in after a weekend of relaxation and fun. Harry used to be one of them, but he's trying not to be any longer. His department needs all active Aurors now more than ever - the public is growing antsy and desperate for some kind of concrete progress in the neo-Death Eater case. Harry doesn't blame them. Just this last week alone, there were two failed bombings in London. Failed only because the field teams efficiently tracked them down and disarmed them before any more Muggle lives were claimed. The hunt for the bastards behind it all has reached a fever pitch, both in the Wizarding and the Muggle worlds.

When Harry steps off the lift onto his floor, he's greeted with what has become a familiar sight the past few months; a department in chaos, papers strewn everywhere, Patronuses darting in and out of the walls, delivering important information left and right, and a few Aurors sleeping on makeshift beds that Robards had no choice but to cram in the main lobby area due to the sheer number of Aurors who have had to sleep over at work. A few of them wave to him as he passes - one of them being Ron.

Harry would like to do nothing more than shoot the breeze with his best friend for a few hours, but he knows Ron can't afford to take breaks. Not when he's leading the field teams.

As Harry nears his office, he notices the door is ajar. Strange, he thinks to himself. Although he didn't care much in the past, lately he's been trying to at least shut the door when he leaves, just so no one can see inside at how messy his desk is.

He pushes it open and freezes. What looks like Keith Edwards has his back toward Harry, and he's bending down and rooting around in one of Harry's file cabinets. He hasn't heard him yet.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

At Harry's voice, Edwards spins around and draws his wand. Harry only has a split second to react, and even though it's been a while since he dueled, his reflexes are still pretty good.

" _Stupefy_ !" Edwards shouts. A beam of red light chases toward Harry, but he deflects it with a quick _Protego._

Harry disarms him before Edwards can do anything else. " _Expelliarmus_ !" His wand soars toward Harry in an arc, and he catches it with his free hand. " _Incarcerous_." Ties bind Edwards until he's laying on the floor, unable to move.

He approaches Edwards cautiously, wand drawn. "Edwards? What the fuck are you doing here?"

To his complete surprise, Edwards burst into tears, and instead of struggling against his bonds, lies limply on the floor. Harry flounders.

"Pl-please....Don't send me to Azkaban..." He pleads, eyes meeting Harry's wild and desperate. "I'll do anything. Please....Ple-ease...."

"What the fuck," Harry breathes, looking down at him and his pitiable form on the ground.

But Edwards suddenly becomes completely unresponsive, just sobbing and mumbling about Azkaban on the floor. There's nothing to be done. Harry sends a Patronus to Robards, telling him about the situation.

Robards is there in a flash. He knocks Harry's door open, sees Edwards on the ground, and crouches over him. "Edwards," he barks. "For Merlin's sake, stop your crying."

He cries harder.

"What are you doing in Potter's office?"

The sobs rack his body so hard Harry wonders if they're enough to break his _Incarcerous_. 

Robards sighs and stands. "You have his wand, right?" he asks Harry.

"Ye-yeah."

He holds out his hand and Harry passes it over to him. While he inspects the previous spells cast on it, he tells Harry, "Get Kinglsey."

And Harry does.

In half and hour, they've transferred Edwards to Robards' office and are finally getting an explanation out of him.

"The Death Eaters, they came to recruit me," he gasps. "I didn't want to, but after the arson, I was afraid. Please, Robards, Minister, you have to understand - my wife is pregnant. I couldn't-I didn't-"

"Yes, I know, I know," Robards snaps, irritated. Harry suspects he's more angry that Edwards got snot on his robes on the way over than anything else. "Stay on topic."

Edwards swallows. "O-okay. So I said yes. I joined them. I was supposed to be their spy."

"And what you were doing in Auror Potter's office?" Kingsley asks.

"I was tampering with the case files. That was the other part of my job."

"And how long have you been doing this?"

"Weeks. Probably two months."

Robards kicks Edwards a little in the side, eliciting a whimper out of him, and spits, "Bloody traitor."

"Robards," Kingsley says sternly. "Control yourself."

"How can I?" Robards all but roars. "It's probably thanks to this fucker that this circus has dragged on for so long." He rounds on Harry. "Did you know about this?"

"No!" He retorts hotly.

"Still, you didn't notice all his time?" He snarls. "This was your one job, Pott-"

"Enough," Kingsley interrupts him with a firm hand on his shoulder. "This isn't anyone's fault but Auror Edwards'. And there's no use in pointing fingers at this point in time. Our priority should recovering the accuracy of the files and going from there. Auror Potter, you are dismissed."

"Okay."

Harry backs out of Robards' office, goes back to his cubicle, and finds he can do nothing but laugh hysterically, clutching at his desk. On his desk, the photo of him, Hermione, and Ron glints under the harsh light. The trio is back together, looking happier than ever. 

With Edwards' compliance, it only takes another day and a half to track down and arrest all of the higher ups in the neo-Death Eater organization. Ron leads most of the raids, and Hermione's so ecstatic about it all that she cuts out a photo of him from _The Prophet -_ mid-run in his scarlet robes - frames it, and hangs it up in the sitting room. At the end of the entire ordeal, Ron gets a promotion for his efforts, and relations with the Muggle Prime Minister improve due to the tireless efforts of Ash and Jenny to calm the Muggle population in the aftermath.

Harry, meanwhile, can't stop laughing at the entire situation. When he tells Hermione and Ron, he can barely get two words in a row out without dissolving into giggles. When he tells Draco, in bed that night, his shoulders shake so hard from laughing that the bed shakes and the mattress springs squeak.  
"I just-I just think it's so funny that, as soon as I start going into work on time, I bust the case wide open. Completely by accident!" He snickers into Draco's shoulder. "What is this, a movie? A book?"  
He can hear the smile in Draco's voice. "You're a Saviour without even trying. You should have expected this."  
"Merlin. It's just so ridiculous."  
"It seems that fate always gives you the most pivotal role. Even when you've done nothing to deserve it."  
"Yeah, right?" Harry intertwines his fingers with Draco's. "I didn't ask for any of this."  
"Save some heroics for the rest of us."  
Harry gives Draco's chest a light push. "Shut up, wanker."  
They laugh and settle into sleep.  
  
The next day, Draco breaks up with Harry. 

It all starts when he tells Harry before he goes to work that he wants to have a serious talk after dinner that night. For the rest of the day, Harry can barely stomach any of his food, can't concentrate on work, can't muster up a smile for when Ron takes him out to lunch. The possibilities for what he wants to talk about swirl in Harry's head, but he's no fool. Neither is Ron.  
"Mate...."  
"I know," Harry says miserably.  
"You're...probably right. There's no other explanation."  
Harry cradles his head in his hands, forlorn. "I don't know what I did wrong!"  
"Harry, say the word, and I'll break his nose. And 'Mione will probably want to get a hit or two in too."  
He would laugh if his heart didn't feel so heavy. He doesn't know what he'll do without Draco. He had foolishly gotten his hopes up, gotten ahead of himself; there were times when Harry envisioned himself growing old with Draco. Adopting a crup together. Merlin, he even had a name picked out for it.  
"It's fine," he mumbles. "If he wants to break up, then it's his choice. I have to respect that." He gathers his trash and stands up. "Let's go back."  
"Are you sure?" Ron asks, reaching for his robes.  
"Yeah."  
"Hey, when this all blows over, let's have a pity party, alright? 'Mione can't drink but we still can," Ron says, trying to keep his tone light.  
But there's nothing that could cheer Harry up now.  
  
When Harry gets back home - no, to Draco's flat - dinner's already ready and waiting for him. And so is Draco. As they eat, Draco asks about his day, chats about progress he's made in his research - perhaps a little excessively. In fact, it occurs to Harry halfway through the meal that Draco's more chatty than usual.  
He's nervous about breaking up with me, probably, Harry thinks as he sullenly stabs at a piece of chicken. 

They wash the dishes together, like usual, shoulders touching. And afterwards, Draco leads Harry to the couch and sits both of them down. 

_Here it comes._

"Harry, I wanted to talk about...what we're doing. Us."

He nods slowly, not trusting himself to say anything.

"It's...hard to live as we are. After the War and everything awful that's happened. For a long time, I thought I could never see anyone again because I thought...I would be a burden. Or they wouldn't understand."

To be honest, Harry's a bit lost. If Draco's breaking up with him, this is a hell of a roundabout to do it.

"And it's even worse since both of us were so involved. I've seen a lot of relationships between survivors where it's gone wrong. They hurt each other just by being together."

_Merlin. Here it comes - for real this time._

Draco rubs his face. "What I'm trying to say is - it would be easy for us to fall back into our old habits. And to enable each other. Which is not what I want out of this."

Suddenly, Harry can't take it anymore. He knows he has to be the one to put himself out of his misery. "Draco. Listen. It's okay. If you want to break up, we can break up. You don't need to ex-"

"I'm sorry, what?" He says flatly. "I'm not trying to break up with you."

"You-I-what? You're not?"

"Merlin, no! What gave you that idea!?"

"I don't know!" Harry flounders. "You said you wanted to talk about ‘us,’ and that it was serious. I just assumed-"

Draco sighs and touches Harry's face, shutting him up. "Let me finish. Then you can jump to whatever conclusions you want."

Harry lets him finish. "As I was saying," he continues, "I don't want us to become...toxic to each other. But I absolutely don't want to break up. I..." He flushes and struggles to speak. "I want to be with you."

Breathless, Harry whispers, "Draco."

"Shh. I have more to say." Draco clears his throat. "I hope you want the same. Because even though we're both... a little fucked up-"

Harry snorts.

"-I think we can still grow. And I want to be here, watching that happen. Helping you."

Harry kisses him - the press of their lips hot and passionate. "Yes," he breathes before kissing him again. "Yes, I agree. I want that. I want you, Draco."

A moan escapes Draco's mouth at that, and he clutches at the back of Harry's shirt. "Thank Merlin. Thank God."

"Can I-" Another kiss. "finally call you my boyfriend?"

For some reason, Draco's been hesitant to put labels on their relationship all this time, but Harry doesn't mind too much. He's happy with whatever Draco's comfortable with.

"Yes. God, yes," he moans as Harry kisses him again. “As long as you’ll have me.”

“That’s my line.”

Draco looks at Harry with a fondness in his eyes so intense that Harry thinks he might just break in half. Wordlessly, they gather each other into their arms and don’t let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the Epilogue!
> 
> And sorry for the late update! I’m currently in an area with extremely spotty wifi so it took me a long while to get this up.


	20. Epilogue

_Five Years Later_

 

Harry Potter shoots to his feet, along with hundreds of other witches and wizards, and claps as loudly as he can manage. On the stage, Hermione’s smiling and posing for a photo with Kingsley, and hanging around her neck is the Kingsley Shacklebolt Medal for Extraordinary Dedication to Equality between Creature, Muggle, and Wizardkind. 

She casts _Sonorous_ and begins her speech as everyone is settling back in their seats. “Wow. I...I have no words.” She lifts up the medal and looks down at it. 

“This is an amazing honor. Thank you. But I can’t accept this alone.” She looks out at the audience - specifically at the row of people in front of Harry.

“The _true_ heroes here are you all - the original activists. The original organizers. Yousef, Tammie, Aria - you three laid the groundwork. You were fighting for werewolf and non-magical rights when I was in the womb-” This elicits a few laughs. “-and you were doing a damn good job of it, too. I’m just here to design the merch and plan brunch.” More laughter. 

When the laughter dies down, she continues. “And big thanks to my husband, Ron, and my family. You all kept me sane and made me go to bed on time, however against my will.” Ron, Rose, and Hugo are to Harry’s left, and they cheer and laugh at their mention. 

“And finally,” Hermione concludes, “I want to thank Harry Potter.” Dozens of sets of eyes land on Harry, but he doesn’t squirm. “Our success is in no small part due to you. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your generosity. For being on the front lines with us.” She raises the medal again, its gold surface scattering light all over the place. “This award belongs to all of you! There’s still much to do, but for now, we can celebrate!”

Once again, she garners a standing ovation. Ron takes Harry’s hand and squeezes. Harry looks over, and sees his best friend is crying. He squeezes back.

 

Afterwards, Harry skips the reception in favor for some home cooking - it’s Friday, after all.

As he does every week, he walks the cobbled path to the small house, listening for the tinkling of the piano. But he doesn’t hear it today. _I guess Draco isn’t here yet._

Harry knocks on the door. From beyond, he hears the pattering of feet. 

“Harry!” It’s Teddy, yellow-eyed and blue hair styled into an elaborate braid. “Come in, quick! I’m about to beat Draco at chess!”

Chuckling, Harry obliges. When they reach their wizard chess set up on the sitting room table, Harry is met with an extraordinary pouty-looking Draco Malfoy. “Ha-a-rry~” He whines, laying his head down on the table. Harry looks at the board. _Yikes._

“Come on - it’s your turn!” Teddy points out, chipper.

Harry takes a seat on the couch right behind Draco, and begins massaging his shoulders. “What happened?”

While moving his knight, Draco complains, “Teddy’s become too smart for his own good - that’s what happened.”

Teddy scoffs and moves one of his own knights in retaliation. “I’m just not a little kid anymore. You were at my twentieth this year!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Draco grumbles. He moves a rook. “But if you’re old, what does that make me?”

“Semantically - _older._ ” Teddy checks Draco. “And checkmate.”

Harry rubs soothing circles into Draco’s back as the latter slouches in the face of defeat on both physical and spiritual levels.

“Dinner’s ready!” Andromeda calls, sending everyone scrambling to get to the kitchen. “Oh! Harry!” She says she Harry walks in. “I didn’t even notice you coming in. Sit down, sit down. Tonight’s your favorite! I’m trying a new recipe based on what you told me.”

Spread on the table are several dishes - sauteed greens, a cold noodle dish, and a whole fish that’s practically buried in chives and ginger. 

“It smells - and looks - divine.” Draco comments, taking his seat.

Andromeda laughs lightly. “Well let’s hope it tastes just as good. Come, let’s eat.”

Ever since Harry mentioned offhand to her a few years ago that he was trying to get in touch with his Chinese heritage again - and the memories associated with it that his father had passed down to him - Andromeda has been expanding her culinary borders. All of her own accord, she started researching - buying recipe books, researching online, even going to London’s Chinatown to taste test and shop. And every two weeks or so, she’ll try her hand at an authentic Chinese meal for Harry.

It’s gotten to the point where she and Molly have a running rivalry for who can cook the closest to the James Potter from Harry’s memories. They’re an odd sight to behold in Chinatown: two bonafide white grandmothers walking the streets, haggling with amazing results, and dining at almost every single eatery available to them. Thanks to them, Harry’s gotten to taste not just food from the Hunan province - where his father was from - but also food from Sichuan, Canton, Shanghai, Xi’An, and more. Never in his life has he been so well-fed.

They begin eating, and don’t stop until the plates are practically licked clean. Groaning, Harry sits back in his seat, tempted to pop open his fly to give his stomach more room - which he’d seen Jackie Chan do in one of his old martial arts movies that he and Draco had watched once. “For the culture!” Harry had said, brandishing the Muggle VCR tape in front of a doubtful Draco.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Andromeda,” Draco says.

She gives them a smile, smug smile. “I did, did I? What do you think, Harry?”

“It was….amazing.” The flavor was perfect. “Just like what my dad used to make.” Harry’s gone a little choked up without him realizing it. Teddy and Draco and Andromeda give him warm looks, and Harry steals the last bit of fish.

 

After dinner, Draco and Teddy decide to practice a piano duet that they’ve wanted to perform for forever, and Harry takes the opportunity to talk over some plans with Andromeda.

“Molly is bringing the cake, right?”

“Yeah I think so.”

“Then I’ll whip up a pie.”

“His favorite is lime, I think.”

“Oh, is it? That’s good to know.”

Next Friday is Draco’s 38th birthday, and Harry’s been planning a surprise party for months. Andromeda and Teddy are hosting and the guest list has gotten long. The Weasley’s are coming, of course. Belle and Ava are too, along with Jonathan, whom they adopted from the Harmony Orphanage two years ago. He’ll be joined by Pat and the rest of his friends from the orphanage who haven’t aged out already. Angelica’s flying down from University of Edinburgh, where she’s taking summer classes, and Dan’s taking off from his part-time job at _The Grace Note._ Madame Maxine may be making an appearance as well, taking Hagrid along with her. Ever since becoming acquainted at her and Hagrid’s wedding, she’s been quite taken with Draco - they have tea every other week. Harry thinks they have some kind of French heritage-related kinship.

Sophia and Lucas are coming too - Sophia is Portkeying in from America, where she’s been wrangling their Magical Creature problem (though they call them ‘Cryptids’ over there) - and Lucas is just going to be walking down the street. He has it all planned out - he’s going to take time off Draco’s lab the day of, citing sickness, and then show up unannounced to celebrate.

Harry’s stomach ties itself into knots at the thought of all his plans coming to fruition, and it’s not just because of the stress of planning a party involving both Muggles and Wizards. He’s got something special planned, and he hasn’t told anyone quite yet - not even Ron or Hermione.

 _If everything goes well,_ Harry thinks, watching Draco and Teddy’s backs as they play, _we’re going to go home that night no longer the only non-engaged or married couple amonst the Weasley’s._

Harry’s thoughts are interrupted when Draco slides on the couch and into his arms. They’ve stopped practicing, and someone has charmed the piano to play small ditties all by itself. 

“Hey,” Draco says, looking up at Harry through his lashes.

“Hey.”

In the background, Teddy makes a face. Andromeda sees and chuckles.

“Are you ready to go? I have to be up early, remember?”

“When’s the Portkey again?”

“Eight.”

“Oof.”

Draco swats Harry’s arm. “Shush. You’re not the one who’s giving the keynote address.”

“Is this the conference you were talking about?” Andromeda inquires.

“Yes.”

The owl came a month ago - the one that invited Draco to be the main speaker of the inaugural International Music-Magic conference, held in Bucharest. Draco had practically torn the piece of parchment to shreds while reading it, which greatly annoyed Narcissa, who wanted it intact and in her scrapbook. 

Andromeda smiles. “Are you nervous?”

After a moment of hesitation, Draco replies, “Yes. A little bit.”

“You’re going to do great.” She and Teddy are beaming. “Harry, do bring me back some souvenirs. I’ve always wanted to visit Austria.”

“Will do.” Harry stands and looks down at Draco. “Let’s go?”

 

They apparate home - a squat two-story in a fishing village not too far from London. Harry still owns 12 Grimmauld Place - he doesn’t think he could ever bring himself to sell it - but he never wants to live there again. It’s a chapter of his life that has closed. 

Besides, Draco swears the third floor is haunted.

After putting their crup - a smiley pitbull christened Trent by Hagrid - to bed and fighting over the first shower before settling on taking one together, Draco and Harry are finally ready for bed.

“Harry?” Draco says from the bed as Harry’s doing some last minute packing.

“Mhm?”

“Would you-” he cuts off.

“Draco?”

“Would you ever want children?”

Harry stops folding his last robe and turns around. “Where’s this coming from?”

Draco buries his head in his pillow, and when he speaks, his voice is muffled. “Just...answer the question.”

“...I think so. It would be nice.”

Draco hums in response and falls silent. Harry crawls into bed with him and hugs him from behind. “Thinking about kids, huh? Who’s the father?” 

A snort. “Fuck off.”

“I think you need the opposite of that to make kids happen.”

With more emotion: “ _Fuck off.”_

Harry chuckles and hugs Draco closer. “Seriously though, shouldn’t we get married first?”

Draco casts him a glare over his shoulder and taunts, “Whenever you’re ready, _Potter_.”

“I guess soon that’ll be my maiden name soon,” he jokes.

“Don’t you dare! Keep ‘Potter’ so we still get all the discounts.”

“Alright, alright. We can hyphenate.”

They fall silent, and Harry’s dozing off when Draco whispers, “I love you.”

Harry pries his eyes open again. By the soft glow of the lamp, he can pick out the gray hairs that have cropped up on Draco’s head recently. He feels his body, which is softer now - less angular. He sees the wrinkles on Draco’s neck.

And Harry knows he’s the same way, knows from all the lazy mornings he’s spent tracing them that they have the same crow’s feet and smile lines. The same soft thighs and stomachs. The same gray. 

The same fears.

The same. 

 _Till death,_ Harry thinks.

He presses a kiss to the base of Draco’s neck.

“I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a WRAP!!! (Sorry for the late ass update, I overestimated my access to quality Internet)
> 
> It feels so surreal to be posting the final chapter of this series. It's like the past two years of my life have resolved with a click of a button!
> 
> Big, big thanks to everyone who left kudos + all the nice comments on my work - I see you, I've read them all, and I appreciate you more than you know.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr @bonsoirpunpun if you want to keep up with what I'm doing/want to know the lunatic behind this fic jhfaksdkjk
> 
> Anyways, I sincerely hope you enjoyed fic, and that it brought you joy - even if only a little. :)


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